SHERINGHAM DIARY 107 - Tawdry Fabrics Left Out In The Rain

It was Hubby's birthday at the end of April. He wanted to visit Southwold. So together we spent most the day there, mooching and munching our favourite haunts.

It was quite noticeably a town, not quite up to speed yet in it's engagement with the tourist season. It was heartening to observe that many of the empty retail units we'd viewed with dismay in September last year, were now  filled, or in the process of refitting, with new tenants . 

We also found some not quite up to standard customer service too . The waitress in one café we sat in, was more than a tad performative. Patently insincere in her meeting and greeting. Attendants in two of the shops on the pier, who were young and slouched disinterestedly. Their job descriptions must have gone - 

'Applicants must not look customers in the face, if you are in danger of making eye contact quickly look up at the ceiling or stare blankly into space as though you are congenitally blind. Whatever you do don't ever speak to customers, or issue a greeting as they come in, this only encourages them to malinger. Just sit hugging your walkie talkie tightly to your chest, as though you are waiting for your boss to inform you that you can pack up early.

In Fat Face on Southwold, there were three relatively young enthusiastic women, passing time by creatively engaging with the stock. Listening in, I learnt a thing or two. One woman said to the other - 

'Yeh, judging by what is here it looks as though strawberry gothic - well - its going to be very big this summer'  

Strawberry Gothic, so Hubby informs me, is a fashion style, goth but no longer uniform scruffy black, everything is flowery in pastel colours instead. If I tell you this knowingly eccentric twist on the style, originated from Japan. That will, no doubt, complete the picture for you. 

Later another shop assistant was trying on sandals. And had the open ended style of sandal on her left foot, and the closed ended version of it, on the right. She pointed and posed her feet and asked another assistant, which one she thought looked best. Not getting a particularly satisfactory reply, she commented - 

' I think I'd go for the one on the right foot, cos it hides my toe cleavage'. 

It is a thing - apparently with rules.

As you may have already noted. Hubby and I are fond of a nice fabric or two. On the look out for something new, we thought an event, entitled Forgotten Fabrics in Whitwell Station, Reepham, was a good thing to prioritise visiting. Hubby had a customer in the haberdashery he works in, raving about it. These sort of recommendations, however, must always be ring-fenced as matters of personal taste, and ought to come with health warnings.

The weather forecast was not promising - torrential rain being strongly mooted. The organisers said they were moving stall holders indoors, defiantly announcing it was still on. We parked the car at the high school, as per instructions. Waited for the mini bus to ferry us a mile down the road. A rather hyper driver opened up the mini bus to let us on. To an Englishman or woman  a light drizzle doesn't seem that bad. Yet halfway down the road the heavens opened, as we hurtled past a number of bedraggled go it alone walkers. We did not feel wise or remotely superior.

Our first instinct on arrival was, therefore, to seek shelter from the deluge. The indoor event hall itself, still had wedding bunting up from a wedding the day before. It was now stuffed to the gills with additional stall holders, cafe tables, many a drenched punter, and a dog that annoyingly whined, snapped and barked constantly. The place was an absolute jumble sale. Rows of tables, containing random bits of fabric and assorted haberdashery excavated from out the depths of someone's garage. There would be no bin fights here for quality stuff.

As it was still tonking it down outside we staked our claim to a cafe table. Treating ourselves to a half arsed coffee and a cake as dry as a ships biscuit. The only thing that made the cake edible was the cream filling ( catering synthetic at its very very finest). With nothing savoury on offer, this was what I'd broken my 'no confectionary' diet for. I was not best pleased. By the time we had sent the semi arid confectionary to the dump yard of our stomachs, the rain had slightly abaited. There was another small side room filled with crap up to be viewed, which we quickly circuited and exited. 

Outside in the shunting yard, were stalls selling rolls of curtain and upholstery quality fabric. Covered completely in opaque waterproof tarpaulin. Pools of water had formed gutter troughings between the rolls, falling in water spouts off the edges. What lay beneath were John Lewis end of rolls and lines. Which makes them sound better quality than they actually were. These were the most redundant of redundant fabrics. The sort John Lewis were glad to see the back of in 1990. We very smartly boarded the mini bus back to the car park. Where an even larger queue of middle aged ladies under capacious umbrellas were desperately awaiting our arrival. You wanted to say - 

'I wouldn't bother if I were you, get back in your cars and go home right now' 

But that would have been cruel - wouldn't it?