Wilkinsons. A Young Persons Favourite Shop.
The Elders of _Paul_And_Land_ went on a road trip of sorts because it was on a train. Well, two trains or more. It should have been less but that’s the nature of trains; sometimes more, sometimes less, sometimes not at all, hey-ho. Enough, by crikey, because there’s more and then extra and additional, such as hotels. Indeed hotels.
The Elders stayed in a hotel with a wobbly floor and big, thick, darkened beams. Stairs that are uneven, more history than history has: the same seat as Arthur Lowe or John Le Mesurier or John Lawrie or Private Walker. And outside the window Tom Paine plays darts with the fresh air. Pretty flippin’ corkin’ and more fish and chips than would be needed to feed the population of Norrich. Or Bury Saintly Edmund, not physically obliviously cos’ he been brown bread a day or twelve but he’s got a nifty little town named after him. Maybe he scoffed a few too many chips and popped, we doubt it not many folk get beatified for chip consumption. Shame.
So, yes, burying Saintly Edmund’s town: Books, yes books, proper books, where you make your dinner with four ingrediments for only one round shiny thing and shops with nice clobbers, properly made, not by tiny children who sleep under sweaty sewing machines, for next to nothingness. Gordon Bennett, all lumly stuff, jaw dragging on the deck. We aw loved, the Elders of our fine place and a scarf, softer than a baby wabbits furry fur. Phwoar!!
And then a big ol’ building, ol’ and big and a garden beyond, all looking flippin’ lovely. Ol’ Eddie boy, you got a nice place ‘ere. Well done you. And then you got Wilko’s, yes Wilko’s, my goodness. Wilkinson’s is a fine shoppe, selling washing up liquids and curtains and fabric softener and Lynx Africa for men who want to smell of a continent. Better than smelling of incontinent, just. Like men who want to smell like David Beckham or Vinnie Diesel or some Pony Club with Ralph Loren, Sophia’s Dad, from a hill in Beverley near Hull.
Let’s get back to Wilkinson’s, yes let’s, it’s someone of a junior persuasions favourite outlet. A curious choice for a person of junior persuasion when the One Direction Pop Up Shop exists in Leeds. But in we go, expectant of piles of Kitchen Rolls and Scuffed Floors. Err, err, err, err, no Scuffed Floor, no Pile of Kitchen Rolls. Blimey, an eye-opener and no mistaking. One now understands the attraction, the pull: real squared paper, proper smells, fluffy towels, a new unexpected experience: this is not Wilkinson’s, this is pure unadulterated ace shoppery.
Burying Saintly Ade Edmundson, you are a beautiful place. Thank you, our Elders will be looking at recreating you in our little part of the world. With our Private Godfrey-a-likes sitting in the bar at the _Paul_And_Land_Arms_ and Clive Dunn. Brilliant.