The Little World

I visit shops with an air of wonder. Sometimes it is wonder at what they have for sale and sometimes it is wonder at why I am there. And occasionally it is wonder at who could possibly want the stock.

This was the case when I was in the retail photographic trade as a shop assistant. I saw things on display for sale that would have puzzled me had they been dug up out of a peat bog. Items of no interest to anyone – of no utility – possessing no beauty or soul. Ugly, useless items in broken packages. Items that could have no possible sale on any planet with an atmosphere. Yet there they were, and there was an inventory of them going back to when they were bought in – bought in for good money.

Who in the hell would ever want to buy them – a constant question in my mind. Until one day it dawned upon me. I know who wanted to buy them. The owner of the shop. The chap who owned them in the 1970’s and ever after, and owned them to the despair of his family. Who owned them to his grave. Who may still own them through some complex post-mortem scheme. Jacob Marley clanked through the shades bound to ledger books and cash boxes – but at least he did not need to drag dead photo enlargers and cabinets of projector bulbs with him.

It must be the same in the hobby shops. I have seen a half-dozen in the past few years – some thriving and some dying. The former run as lean as they can and stock things that they can run out of occasionally due to demand. The latter are well-stocked with things there’s little call for.

As irksome as it may be to the customer who finds that they can’t get that special kit or paint or tool for a couple of months, the retailer is far better off to have the occasional bare shelf caused by brisk business than the perpetually full one caused by no customers. And the wisest of the retailers have the courage and discipline to actually bin the shit after it has had a decent time of exposure. They do it in the dog parks after dark…