Diary of a Shopkeeper, 2nd November

Last week, Kirkwall BID’s Halloween Parade had to be cancelled because of a scary weather forecast. Yesterday, their Girls’ Day Out seemed to be similarly at risk due to the incessant heavy rain. The good news is that by noon reasonable numbers were braving the downpour, many wearing wide-brimmed Stetson-style hats to tie in with the day’s Cowgirl theme. And the afternoon ended up being very busy. Another successful day for Kirkwall BID and the town centre!

Around 2pm an imposing figure in an ankle-length coat and a black cowboy hat pulled low moseyed up to the counter. It was only when she pushed back the dripping brim of her hat that I realised it was Mrs Stentorian.

‘Afternoon, Henrietta,’ I said. ‘You made it through the floods!’

‘It would take more than a light drizzle to stop me,’ she said. ‘True, I had to get my old kayak out to make it down the track to the main road. Did you know I represented England in whitewater canoe slalom at the Bogorodskoe championships?’

‘I did not know that,’ I said. ‘Strangely, it has never come up in conversation when I’ve been selling you cheddar and Sherry.’

‘I was beaten into second place by the pesky Russians,’ she said. ‘Literally. Beaten over the head with a paddle and deliberately capsized. I completed the last kilometre of the course upside down and underwater.’

‘Amazing,’ I said. ‘Congratulations.’

She held her hands up. ‘Oh, you know, I don’t like to blow my own trumpet. Which, funnily enough, is exactly what I said to Louis Armstrong when he asked me for some advice on embouchure. ‘I don’t like to blow my own trumpet anymore, Mr Armstrong. But I will happily pucker up for you.’’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said, ‘Hello Dolly!’ And the rest is musical history.’

My face must have conveyed undue astonishment.

‘It’s all true,’ she said. ‘I had the most powerful lips in jazz in those days; the late Mr Stentorian often commented appreciatively.’

My jaw dropped again. ‘I’ve just got to…I’ve just got to…pour some wine tasters for these lovely folk over here,’ I stuttered, and went off to do just that. (Big Beltie Sauvignon Blanc, since you ask: a lovely zingy white with a Cowgirl-appropriate Belted Galloway on the label.) I was occupied for a time talking about wine and Victorious Vintage cheddar (also with a cow on the label, breed uncertain: the top hat it’s wearing makes identification hard.) Then my attention was caught by raised voices down the far end of the shop.

‘How dare you!’ Mrs Stentorian was thundering. An angry male voice rumbled in reply.

I excused myself from the cheese counter and threaded my way through the customers gathered at the chilli sauce display and the tortilla chip samplers.

‘Is there a problem?’ I said as I approached Bruce Brass and Henrietta facing each other in front of the wine shelves, like duellists facing up for a gunfight.

‘This…gentleman,’ she boomed, ‘Had the temerity to cast aspersions on my physical appearance. Is that really the kind of harassment you want on your business premises?’

‘Of course not,’ I said.’

‘This is daft!’ cried Bruce. ‘All I said was that she looked like that guy out of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.’

‘Clint Eastwood?’ I said.

‘The very fellow,’ said Bruce. ‘The hat, the long coat – she’s the spitting image.’

‘I am not clenching a cheroot in my teeth, and I am positively NOT sporting a three-day beard,’ she exclaimed.

I found my gaze irresistibly drawn to her chin. Of course she was right: no stubble at all.

‘Bairns bairns,’ I said. ‘I think Bruce meant well, Henrietta. He was, after all, comparing you to The Good character, not The Ugly. But really, Bruce, you’ve no reason to comment on another customer’s appearance at all.’

‘She started it,’ he said. ‘She said my pink leopard-skin Stetson would have got me lynched in the good old days of the west.’

‘I meant the wild west,’ she said, ‘Not the West Mainland.’

‘I know that,’ he growled. ‘But it was still rude.’

Mrs Stentorian shrugged. ‘I say what I say,’ she said, ‘and I stand by it. And then…après moi, le déluge.’

‘I didn’t know you spoke Spanish,’ I said.

This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 6th 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.