Diary of a Shopkeeper, 23rd November

At this time of year I feel a bit like Sherlock Holmes surveying the fog-swathed streets of London from his flat in Baker Street: ‘The web is quivering, Watson. Somewhere out in the darkness something is afoot. I don’t know what yet. But mark my words, it will shock us to the very marrow of our bones.’

In our case, what is afoot is Christmas. Few customers utter the word this early, and most shopkeepers are as superstitious as the fishermen of old, who thought that uttering certain words while at sea would bring disaster. So instead of ‘church’ they’d say ‘burly hoose’ and instead of ‘children’ or ‘bairns’ they’d say ‘pirrens.’ In the same way, 21st century shopkeepers have their taboos and always refer to, ‘You Know What’.

Picking up a bit of fish in The Brig I might ask, ‘Are you ready for You Know What?’

‘Is anyone ever really ready for You Know What?’ comes the reply.

Nonetheless, we have all been sneaking festive goods onto our shelves for a few weeks, and stringing up the odd glitter of tinsel here, the odd sparkle of lights there. I nip along the street with a delivery and return to find that Lauren has hung giant snowballs from the ceiling. Customers too succumb to a gradual Christmasifacation. They pick up bottles of Port and gaze at the labels thoughtfully. They ask how our stocks of Stilton are doing. They start wearing knitted hats: either coolies or, if they’re feeling deil-may-care, toories with holly-red pompoms on top.

But there’s one unmissable, out-in-the-open sign that Christmas is coming. It’s the posters advertising tickets for the annual winter concert in aid of the Malawi Music Fund. Sales always start slowly, but gradually build as folk we rarely or never see for the rest of the year come in for their passport to an evening of seasonal joy from the Orkney Camerata and Winter Choir. After a few days I get to recognise the distinctive walk of a concert goer – glancing neither right nor left, but marching towards me with a look of steely determination – and wheech the ticket box out of its drawer before they even reach the counter. So it was on Wednesday, when Elsbeth and Creighton came through the door and advanced towards me. It’s true they come into the shop at other times of the year, but they never find anything they want to buy. So concert tickets were undoubtedly their mission.

‘Hello! How many would you like?’ I said.

Elsbeth, looking startled, grabbed her husband’s arm. ‘How did you know we wanted tickets?’ she said.

I smiled. ‘Shopkeeper’s intuition.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Creighton. ‘But you’re right. We’re very excited about Simon Rattle coming to Kirkwall.’

Now I frowned. ‘Simon Rattle? I don’t think he’s coming here.’

‘Indeed he is,’ said Creighton. ‘He’s to conduct the London Symphony Orchestra in the cathedral on 14th December.’

‘I’m sure I’d have heard,’ I said.

‘He’s leading them in a selection of the Christmas works of Benjamin Button,’ said Elsbeth.

‘That cant be,’ I said. ‘That’s the day the Orkney Camerata and three different choirs are giving their Christmas concert. It’s a local tradition.’

Creighton looked thoughtful. ‘I think there is a local element, now you mention it.’

‘Is there, dear?’ said Elsbeth.

‘Yes, dear. It’s the premier of a new serenade by a local composer. What’s his name? Peter Maxwell…’

‘Davies?’ I said.

‘No, not quite that,’ said Creighton. ‘Douglas! That’s it! Peter Maxwell Douglas Montgomery. Why he needs quite so many names I don’t know, but he’s a wonderful composer, and quite good on the fiddle too, so I’m told.’

‘On the what, dear?’

‘The fiddle. It’s an Orkney word for a violin.’

‘How fascinating,’ she said. ‘And what do they call a cello?’

‘I don’t know for sure,’ he said, ‘But probably, knowing them, something like “da muckle fiddle”.’

‘Hold on!’ I cried. ‘Yes, Douglas is an excellent fiddle player. But he’s a separate person entirely from Peter Maxell Davies. And Max is not, sadly, in a position to write any new pieces of music these days.’

‘So the programme’s changed?’ said Creighton. ‘Never mind, we’ll take two tickets anyway.’

‘I can’t sell you tickets to the London Symphony Orchestra,’ I said. ‘They’re not playing.’

‘Well!’ scoffed Elsbeth, ‘I can’t see Simon Rattle conducting the Orkney Camera Club, or whatever you called it.’

‘Camerata,’ I said. ‘And he’s not.’

‘So you won’t sell us tickets to see Simon Rattle?’

‘I would if I could but I can’t!’

Creighton sighed heavily, and put an arm round his wife’s waist, as if to usher her away from me and my unhelpful attitude.

‘I’d have hoped for a bit more cultural appreciation,’ he sniffed. ‘Especially at this time of year. But if you’re not willing to help us, we’ll take our business elsewhere. Elsbeth, let us leave this philistine establishment and make our way across the street to The Reel.’

At this point, 30th November, we have sold out of tickets. We hope to get some more to sell between now and the 14th. Other sellers may still have some. We can confidently predict that The Reel won’t be able to help.

This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 27th November 2025. A new diary appears weekly. I post them in this blog a few days after each newspaper appearance, with added illustrations, and occasional small corrections or additions.