Woolies est mort
I passed through the local Woolworths yesterday. It was the last day of the closing-down sale, something I thought I had missed. I got to see the shop stripped bare to it's brick walls and a massive queue of bargain hunters relieving it of the last of the heavily-discounted stock.
The Woolies in the town where I grew up, and the town I've returned to for Christmas, always wanted to stand out. It wasn't content to be part of a chain of shops. It was a boxy free-standing building at the front of the town. I don't know what was on that land before the Woolworths. The store was just there as far back as I can remember, part of the landscape of my childhood.
I'm already forgetting the way I saw it with vultures picking the shelves clean of the last of the 80%-discounted morsels. I'd rather keep my fuzzy memories of when it was alive and healthy, just cause I'm pathetic like that.
The Woolies in the town where I grew up, and the town I've returned to for Christmas, always wanted to stand out. It wasn't content to be part of a chain of shops. It was a boxy free-standing building at the front of the town. I don't know what was on that land before the Woolworths. The store was just there as far back as I can remember, part of the landscape of my childhood.
I'm already forgetting the way I saw it with vultures picking the shelves clean of the last of the 80%-discounted morsels. I'd rather keep my fuzzy memories of when it was alive and healthy, just cause I'm pathetic like that.