I know now that, contrary to previous speculation, my local corner shop is not necessarily the worst in Ireland. A number of readers with varying addresses have assured me that it sounds uncannily like theirs. But at the risk of giving in to pride, I must still insist that mine is at least among an elite group competing for the overall title. My only worry is that it may not last much longer, writes Frank McNally
The sense of crisis deepened this week. "Do you wonder why I'm going mad?" the woman behind the counter - we'll call her Eileen - asked when I entered. She gestured by way of explanation to a shelf with 12 sliced pans lined up in a row. I guessed that this was either too few or too many, and probably the latter. But you can never be sure with the corner shop, so I played for time. "Dear God!" I said, surveying the sliced pans and shaking my head at the madness of it all.
Overstocking has not normally been a problem for the store. On the contrary. Only a minimalist interior designer could be excited by the lack of clutter on its shelves, which are filled mainly with natural sunlight.
Indeed, Eileen had only just recovered from the bap crisis of a few days earlier. Shockingly, only six baps had been delivered one morning. And as she braced herself to break the news to the bap-hungry builders from up the road, I agreed with her that it was an unacceptable situation. "What am I supposed to do?" she asked. I thought then about suggesting prayer. The holy pictures on the shelf behind her hinted at a loaves-and-fishes option. But it was not a moment for levity, so I said nothing.
Sure enough, this time, the bread man had gone the opposite direction. "He told me there were 12 sliced pans ordered, but I said I know nothing about it," Eileen complained. Relieved to be able to empathise with more conviction, I agreed that she couldn't possibly sell 12. Maybe if the shop opened late, I said. But it has always been the owners' policy to close before the evening rush, so that possibility didn't arise.
I suggested there must be some confusion in the standing order with the bakery, because if it consisted of a note saying "give us this day our daily bread" it could hardly be more open to interpretation. Not that the problem affected me either way. The shop stocks white bread only, and I quit buying mine there years ago in protest at the management's apartheid policies.
Bread aside, my efforts to support the business have been thwarted at every turn. I long ago stopped asking for things I couldn't see, for fear of provoking Eileen into yet another humiliating apology, or into offering a version I didn't want. But even some of the visible products - for example, newspapers - can be off limits.
The shop carries a small supply of the four or five main Irish titles. So one day, being a journalist, I bought one of each, delighted at being able to make a substantial purchase. It was immediately clear that I had committed a faux pas. The next day, Eileen saw me coming, and whipped several papers off the counter. She had to "put a few aside" for other customers, she explained apologetically. Thereafter I confined myself to one paper and one or two other, clearly visible, items. A pint of milk, maybe, or a few bananas if the fruit man had called.
But all my frustrations were forgotten this week when, after we had exhausted the subject of bread, Eileen told me that this was her last day on the job. The struggle of crossing the city every morning was too much, she said, and anyway the future of the shop was in doubt. There was talk of refurbishment. The owners were unsure whether to close altogether in the interim, or just scale back. Either way, for the foreseeable future the business would be offering even more of the uncertainty that is so important in a customer-client relationship.
I told Eileen I'd miss her, which was the truth. But then she astonished me by saying that her employers had invited her to work in another shop. "Do they have another shop?" I asked, genuinely surprised. "A whole chain of them!" she said.
Maybe this explained why readers found mine familiar, I thought. And maybe what had always looked like incompetence was a deliberate business strategy. Were the holy pictures a hint about the true nature of the enterprise? Could it be that the owners were wealthy Christian philanthropists, using sparsely stocked retail outlets to spread the message that we should reduce our dependence on the things of this world? I realised now that despite everything, some of this message had seeped through to me. The shop had pointed me in the direction of a simpler life.
You don't need to be constantly buying things, it seemed to say. And right enough, I had found that I could get by with a few basics. My newspaper, a pint of milk, and the odd banana was all I really needed. That and the truck-load of stuff I get from the supermarket every weekend.