Diary of a Shopkeeper, 1st March

Members’ benefits: always a special seat for The Bishop.

Mrs Stentorian took a small leather-bound notebook from her handbag. ‘A little birdie told me something very interesting,’ she said.

‘Was it that spring is here?’ I said.

‘No’ she said.

‘But surely,’ I said, ‘Spring is sprung, the grass is riz. I wonder where the birdies is.’

She tapped her fountain pen on the notebook. ‘I’m trying to have a serious conversation,’ she said.

‘Sorry. I think I’m a bit gyte with seeing light in the sky and snowdrops coming up in the garden.’

‘The little birdie is my friend Mr William Pickle. And he tells me you’re starting a wine club.’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Except we actually started it six months ago. You might even have read about it in the paper.’

‘The Telegraph? I don’t think so.’ She opened her notebook. ‘So my question is, what are the entry requirements, and are women allowed on the premises? Because I can tell you, if you’re setting up something like Boodles, where female guests have to use the side door, or White’s, where women are welcome only if they are Her Majesty the Queen, then I am definitely not interested. Nor do I approve.’

‘It’s not that kind of club,’ I said.

‘I’m glad to hear it. So where are your premises? Surely not in this charmless blockhouse?’

I bridled a bit at her miscalling of my beloved shop, but kept professional. ‘It’s really not that kind of club,’ I said. ‘It’s not a building like those fancy places in London. You pay a subscription every month and get some tasty wine and a booklet of info and food suggestions and jokes.’

‘Oh!’ She snapped her notebook shut. ‘No deferential servers in morning dress bringing a schooner of sherry? Most disappointing! I was rather looking forward to some old school hospitality.’

‘It’s absolutely not that kind of club,’ I said.

‘Ah, the stories my father used to tell!’ Her faced softened. ‘Being a Bishop, when he went up to town he always lodged at his club, the Red Cockatoo. I suppose the name came from the clerical garb of its members. Or maybe it was the specially trained birds that used to deliver peanuts to the tables. It was quite a kerfuffle, daddy said, because of course the poor cockatoos could only hold one peanut at a time in their beaks. It took quite a while for them to fill up the little dish on the table. By which time, daddy had finished his brandy.’

‘And was that a men only club?’

‘The members, yes. But the birds were non-gender-specific.’

‘I went to a posh London club, once,’ I said. ‘Lauren and I were at a trade wine tasting, and at the end one of the other guests said, ‘Let’s get a drink.’ We’d only been tasting wine for six hours, so it seemed like a good idea.’

Mrs Stentorian cocked here head, like a cockatoo, as if she were listening, so I carried on.

‘We were ushered into this grand place in Pall Mall like a scene out of The Crown, and given a glass of something wonderful. It was the guided tour that was our downfall. They had these glass floors so you can see down to the wine cellars far below. It was so unexpected that one of us – no names! – went skiting and landed on their bahookie in the middle of the glass floor.’

‘Ah!’ she cried. ‘That reminds me: The Bahookie Club. My dear departed husband was a founding member of that one. Bertie was very discreet about the perks and services there, but he always came home with a smile on his face.’

‘They probably had a good wine list,’ I said.

‘I think for a lot of gentlemen, the clubs were a happy reminder of school days. Wood panelled refectories, toad in the hole and spotted dick for dinner, and a clear sense of a pecking order.’

‘We’re back to the cockatoos again.’

She sighed. ‘I just wish that I could have been part of such an august institution. But my sex barred me from it. So daddy and Bertie always said. That’s why, when Mr Pickle told me about your club, I thought, ‘My chance has come at last!’’

‘I’m really sorry, Henrietta,’ I said. ‘But it’s not that kind of club.’

‘Blackballed again!’ she wailed.

‘Not at all. Listen, have you thought about the Rural?’

‘The what?’

‘The Rural. The Scottish Women’s Institute. It’s a great organisation.’

‘Do they serve schooners of sherry?’

‘No, it’s more of a cup of tea and a scone atmosphere.’

She looked thoughtful. ‘I like a good scone. Do you think they’d have me as a member?’

‘Of course they would.’

‘And my friend, Willie Pickle?’

‘Ah. That won’t be so easy.’

‘I suppose every club must have its rules, ‘she said, cheery now. ‘Got to keep out the riffraff.’

Mrs Stentorian, and everyone else, can read more about the Orkney Wine Club here. You can even sign up with just a few clicks…

This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 5th March 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.