A poor, run-down sort of place

There is a shopping centre near where I work. I often go there at lunchtime. It is a poor, run-down sort of place. When it was built (in the late 1970s I would guess) it would have been a showpiece of modern architecture, with shops surrounding a central square, inventive 1970s sculpture formations, flats above the shops, each with a balcony supporting a miniature garden. One can imagine the architects saying they had been inspired to build a concrete Hanging Gardens of Babylon.

In the three years I have been going to the centre it has declined dramatically. About half the shops have closed and are boarded up. The sculptures have been removed recently in case children climbed on them, fell and hurt themselves. The local council has reportedly moved “problem” families into the flats where they can be anti-social to each other instead of bothering decent people.

My colleagues at work are surprised that I go to the local centre instead of driving five miles to Tescos. They warn me especially never to go into the pub. I like the place because the people there seem “real” (difficult to explain, but they have a lack of pretence, as if all aspiration has been crushed out of them, and only the vulnerable kernel of humanity remains). On a practical level I also find the centre convenient, with a post office, bank, building society and chemist.

Only once did I feel threatened. I had been walking across the square, and coming towards me was a couple in their ‘twenties, very poorly dressed, the man unshaven. They were arguing loudly, and making bitter recriminations to each other. As we drew level and passed, the man swore at the woman so crudely and violently that I couldn’t help looking in his direction. The man took objection to this, turned towards me and shouted “You alright mate?” I walked on, and in a few seconds the incident had passed. But it made me think how on edge some people are.

Another time I went there and in the middle of the car park was a huge lorry which looked as if it had been ransacked. Standing around were about twenty police. The local newspaper said later that the lorry had been stolen in the middle of the night, driven to the car park, and the contents looted and taken into the flats.

This lunchtime I went to the small greengrocers. This is very much a “no frills” operation, with fruit in various stages of ripeness and decay just heaped up in bins. You take the fruit you want, put it into brown paper bags, and pay on the way out. I had selected some apples, and was waiting at the checkout desk. In front of me was a young mother with a toddler in a pushchair. Another young woman with a pushchair came into the little shop, took some fruit, came over to the checkout queue and greeted the woman in front of me, pushing into the line and manoeuvring her pushchair so that I was obliged to step backwards. She was aged in her early twenties, long hair (slightly greasy looking), short tight skirt, a white halter-top that showed a slight roll of fat round her midriff. She talked non-stop to her friend, but as she did so she frequently looked out of the corner of her eye at me, looks so frank and obvious that I felt self-conscious.

The first woman paid for her purchases and moved on. The middle-aged woman at the checkout (who had a homely face, with a very pronounced nose) ignored the second woman with the pushchair and moved down the counter to where I was waiting, took the apples from my hands, weighed them and asked me for the money. The woman in the white halter-top stood open-mouthed, a look of disgust on her face. I left the shop feeling uneasy. I felt as if I had insulted her in some way.