Diary of a Shopkeeper, 25th January

Broad Street looking particularly wet and wintry. (Are you sure about this? Ed.)

Saturday dawned wet and blustery, and stayed that way till dark – which wasn’t long after, thanks to the wintery gloom hanging over Kirkwall. As the door rattled in the wind, and rain battered the window, I was reminded of Alison Miller’s description of such times: ‘Whit waether, min. Rashy bulder efter rashy bulder and no a dry paet in the hoose!’ Except in this case it would be, ‘No a dry wine in the hoose.’

About eleven o’clock the door opened and a very occasional customer, Peedie Andy Creak, leant though.

‘I’m not coming in,’ he shouted.

‘Thanks for letting me know,’ I said. ‘But you’re very welcome.’

‘I’m just telling you your sign’s blown over in the wind.’

‘It does sometimes when the wind’s from that airt. Thanks for putting it upright.’

He laughed. ‘Och, I didn’t do that. Not my job, beuy!’

The door closed behind him and he dashed back up the path towards the street.

Hmm! I better go and do it myself. There were no customers and little prospect of crowds suddenly arriving, so I nipped out and up the close, hunching my shoulders against the freezing rain needling under my collar. Out on Broad Street, the sign wasn’t couped over at the edge of the close mouth. I looked around. There it was: outside Lows, flat on its side and still budging northwards. Loshans, this wind was stronger than I realised. I hurried along towards the sign, and was stooping to grab the top when a yellow mass loomed in front of me. I looked up. It was a couple in matching custard-coloured cagoules: Creighton and Elspeth.

‘Ah, shopkeeper!’ cried Creighton, his voice muffled by the tightly snorkelled hood of his coat. ‘We’re just coming to see you.’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘I’m just going to pick up this sign and put it back where it belongs.’

‘Goodness!’ exclaimed Elsbeth. ‘Surely serving your customers takes precedence over retrieving a piece of street furniture?’

I sighed a little, but the customer is always right, even if they never buy anything. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Just let me push it in here for safekeeping, and we’ll go straight down to the shop.’

Elspeth stepped one way around me, and Creighton the other, as I struggled to set the sign right way up in the face of the blast. After a tussle, I got it vertical and gave it a shove into Lows’ courtyard. I ran after Creighton and Elsbeth, following them down the close and into the shop. They stopped on the doormat to carefully unzip, untie and unbutton their hoods, leaving me to wait outside in the downpour till they were finished. Eventually I won in, and gave myself a shake like a labrador coming out of the sea. ‘So, what can I get for you today?’ I said.

‘We’d like,’ said Creighton, ‘two tickets for tonight’s appearance by The Chair at the Barras.’

‘I think you mean Barrowlands,’ I said. ‘Barrowlands Ballroom. In Glasgow.’

Elspeth snorted. ‘We know where it is. We know all about Glasgow; we’re from Edinburgh, after all. And it’s colloquially referred to as The Barras.’

I took a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid,’ I said, ‘we don’t sell tickets for The Barras. Or Barrowlands. Nor, for future reference, do we sell tickets for the Royal Festival Hall or the Hollywood Bowl.’

‘Ah, the Holyrood Bowl!’ said Creighton. ‘What an exquisite venue, with the glorious Salisbury Crags as a backdrop. Do you remember when we saw Peter Capaldi in concert there, dear?’

‘Wonderful!’ she replied, smiling beatifically. ‘But wasn’t it Lewis Capaldi?’

‘Who can tell,’ said Creighton. ‘Such talented brothers.’

And with that they turned and left. I’m sure I heard Elsbeth saying something about The Broclaimers as they headed for the door, but the rustling of their cagoules was deafening and I couldn’t be sure.

I mopped my neck with a paper towel, grabbed my coat, and dashed out again to retrieve the sign from Lows. Except when I got there, it had gone. The wind was blowing stronger than ever, and somehow it must have whirled the sign around and wheeched it further down Broad Street. I peered through the gloom and raindrops. There it was – miraculously upright and pointing directly into Hume Sweet Hume. A very fine shop indeed. But anyone following the sign inside for whisky, cheese and wine was going to be disappointed. I had to return it to its rightful home.

The Castle Street corner was streaming. I paused to check the traffic just as a pick-up took the corner a bit too fast, sending a gutterful of muddy water all over me. Argh! Nothing in the till, disappointed customers, a runaway sign – and now I was completely drookit. Could the day get any worse? Ah well, at least I don’t live in the USA. There’s comfort in that.

Thank you to David Spence and Judith Glue, who set our toppled sign the right way up not once but twice!

This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 29th January 2026. 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.