Long Live the Corner Shop

The humble store is the cornerstone of British society

The Oxford English Dictionary defines a “corner shop” as “a shop at the corner of a street.” I define a corner shop as a pillar of British society, which proudly stands for what we truly believe in: cheap convenience. For me at least, the sight of the local corner shop is equivalent to that of a lit-up ‘Welcome Home’ sign. Not only does it establish a sense of belonging, but the corner shop also impacts daily routine. The act of trudging in on the way home from school with your friends to grab the cheapest sweets available can practically be considered a ritual of British culture. It’s a well-known fact that your local shop will have seen you through it all — parties, breakups, drunken antics, hungover regrets: The corner shop is accepting of all states. If you’re particularly lucky, you may even be on ‘bossman’ terms with the owner, a relationship more sacred than most friendships. The corner shop tells you that it will all be okay; the corner shop is always there for you. In fact, these businesses have become so embedded in our lives that they’ve gained an exclusive status. Instead of having individual names, it seems that every single one of these institutions across the country is simply known as ‘the corner shop.’ Considering this, I have a theory that our tragic lack of such stores within St Andrews is a key reason why this town can feel so cut off — we’re missing a fundamental part of Britain’s infrastructure.

Although our three streets do boast plenty of independent shops, many of them are very obviously for tourists and not the public. That being said, it’s not as if we have a lack of places for people to quickly pick up bread or milk or a multi-pack of cocktails. On the contrary, should you find yourself in this position, it’s likely that the doors of Tesco or Sainsbury’s will open for you. There’s nothing inherently wrong with this, but there is an underlying reservation: These businesses are chains. Our local shops are, in fact, not so local; rather, they’re corporate giants with no real connection to our town. Fisher and Donaldson aside, the St Andrews shopping scene feels like it’s becoming more and more similar to that of a city. Part of the beauty of smaller towns is that their streets have a distinct character, instead of having rows of stores which could be found anywhere in the UK. 

There’s another certain feature about the corner shop which is often lost upon large companies: human interaction. There is no self-checkout, no screen on which to place an order. A side effect of going into a corner shop, whether this is viewed as cheerful or socially terrifying, is the requirement that you talk to another person. As convenient and popular as chain stores are, they contain no sense of the individuality which would perhaps be expected in a town such as ours. Yes, their aisles and checkouts are neatly ordered, but is it that magical place where I can buy a magazine, pick n’ mix, and some knock-off headphones? The clumsy yet wondrous quality of the corner shop is what makes it such a charming part of everyday life.

It should be clear by now that the corner shop is far more than just a shop; it’s a sign of home. The ancient posters in the windows and the screaming headlines of the tabloid press signify a sense of belonging. Among streets that are growing more and more ubiquitous, the corner shop stands out as a beacon of hope, showing us that some individuality remains. Imagining a Britain without these humble stores is like imagining a New York City without any delis. Devastating. The corner shop is one of the few wholesome joys that this otherwise dreary island has to offer. There’s nothing quite like the excitement of going somewhere which has been there for at least the last twenty years, yet still feels brand new.

Illustration from Wikimedia Commons