THIS week's adventure takes us to Newcastle, far south into what in Britainshire is routinely referred to as the north-east. My triumphant entrance by car is marked by the usual farce of badly signposted roads sending me straight back out of the city again.
My unsought for route takes me past the football stadium. I remember coming here as a news reporter to cover the resignation of Kevin Keegan, the manager, in 1997. Newcastle is a one-team city and the fervour is everywhere. Keegan's resignation was e
ven announced on the underground.
After driving around in ever-decreasing circles, eventually I find a car park by the railway station. Once I get parked, I see a sign that says there's no hourly rate, just a flat fee of £14 for up to 24 hours. Jesus H Wotsname, this is worse than Edinburgh.
It's spring and so cold that even the Geordies are wearing jaickits or, at least, the men are. The women are still doing without. How embarrassing for one's teeth to be chittering when a smiling burd walks by in a T-shirt. I needed to find the comfort and security of a mall, preferably with a Waterstone's in it. It never feels like a proper holiday until you've checked and compared the Waterstone's in other towns. Holidays abroad, where one is unable to do this, must be terribly dull.
I spot a large structure with a sign saying The Gate. Crowds are streaming towards it. It looks like a mall. It must be. But it turns out to be an entertainment complex, full of young people ignoring each other while texting someone somewhere else. Then I find a mall so massive it must qualify as a continent: the Eldon Square Centre.
I realise from the configuration of the Markies that I have been here before, during a brief sandwich-hunting stopover on the way to my beloved Yorkshire some years ago. I remember now that it took me three hours to find that sandwich.
Citizens clutching tell-tale blue- and-white paper bags indicate the presence of Mr Gregg the baker in this consumers' metropolis. As in Berwick, diners were eating directly from the bags. Fascinating.
In the labyrinthine corridors of the mall, portly, bald security guards strutted. I get terrible urges to boot these people up the bahookey. The price to pay in dentistry and the ruination of my plain looks would be high, but worth it, I feel.
Looking at the shoppers, it was clear that everybody in Newcastle is poor. I had to go into John Lewis to see some lower middle-class people. In the JL restaurant, I saw a teenage boy getting embarrassed and angry because his girlfriend, all done up for their date, was trying to pay for her inexpensive repast with a card. Not that he was going to pay for it, like. I hate to see ill-at-ease boys take out their awkwardness on the gals. You could see the much anticipated date being ruined for her. Breaks your heart, that sort of thing. No wonder girls grow up to be evil. Even this ostensibly nice lass will soon learn the peculiarly female joy of cruelty and the sense of power that comes from being irrational.
After some time, I find the Waterstone's. It is outside the mall! I had not thought to look there. I spend ages browsing. My addiction to books is ludicrous. I don't even read them any more. When you get to 50, you realise that no-one has the answers. But, still, we keep looking.
As is often the case, the Waterstone's assistant is friendly and chatty to all the customers. In my recce of the impending social contact, I notice that he is making comments about the customers' purchases. As I am buying an obscure oriental text that will make me immortal, just the thought of his openly discussing this controversial purchase within earshot of ordinary humans causes me to blush.
However, after hovering for around 40 minutes, I move in while there is a distraction with another customer asking if they sell hats, and the frighteningly friendly assistant packages the book with hardly even a glance at it. Then we start talking about the Waterstone's loyalty card, one of which I already have, framed above the fireplace.
This has been an excellent transaction. Not only has my choice of book passed unremarked, but I have actually had a conversation with someone, which is unusual for me in the course of any given day. It lasted less than a minute, but it renewed my love of Waterstone's. I must send them another anonymous donation.
As for the rest of Newcastle, I cannot say. I never looked.
Next week: To Eyemouth and Coldingham, which manage to charm me, despite their lack of malls.
The full article contains 822 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
