In the 1980s, a stationery shop opened at the top of Delaval Road in Benwell and , in my opinion, capitalism reached its absolute peak.
I can’t recall what the shop was called and I’d struggle to describe its inventory other than to say “lots of pens, probably some rulers and rubbers” (there’s a reason why I am not the nostalgia writer for this paper).
But I know that I spent many, many hours in there, looking longingly at the felt tips and wishing I had enough money to buy them all. It was the 1980s and it was the west end of Newcastle and felt tips were all I needed in my life.
I don’t recall spending much money in there, and no doubt the owners’ hearts sank every time a little ginger kid rocked up and silently browsed their wares before leaving with a vague air of disappointment. Not buying anything didn’t stop me from going back time after time, assessing the different ranges of Berol felt tips and imagining a life in which they were mine.
I could philosophise and ponder my pen obsession. I could claim that my future career as a writer sprang from that moment as I saw the possibilities of the written word and what could be achieved with just a humble pen and an open mind.
But ultimately I just thought pens were really nifty because I was nine.
I like posh people (just not the ones trying to run the country)
Thirty-something years later, my own kids have computer consoles and exciting activities to which I ferry them with ever-increasing weariness. If I told them they had to spend an hour looking at felt tips in a corner shop they would take it as confirmation that I had finally flipped my lid.
But the truth is that they love just pens just as much as I did in 1981. (My younger son once drew up a Christmas list which read: “1. France football kit; 2. Highlighters”. That was it. He is easily pleased.)
I now do a job where I get free pens all the time. From conferences, PR launches and in the corporate packs companies hand to me, I now have so many branded biros that I could copy War and Peace longhand and never run out of ink.
I take every free pen I’m offered, and there is a pleasure of sorts in seeing which firm has the best branded stationery and who has gone for the, ahem, slightly cheaper option.
But I’m not going to pretend that I get that same thrill from pocketing a law firm pen as I did at the top of Delaval Road all those years ago. That shop is where capitalism reached its absolute peak.
Graeme Whitfield is business editor of The Journal
