While visiting a local department store, I realised it was possible to feel a little homesick even in one's own town.
I remembered large rolls of brown paper on the end of counters. The assistant would pull out a long enough piece, then rip it in a dead straight line, enough to wrap the purchase. Deft fingers would fold and tuck to perfection.
Gran would offer up a £1 note, which was placed in a pot, a lever pulled and it sped overhead to the cash desk at a rate of knots. Change and a receipt returned in the same manner.
As if that were not enough, then came every boy's dream: The revolving door where fingerprints were left on highly-polished brass plates. "Can we go round again Gran?" She always obliged.
-Gordon Dean, St Lukes Road, Brighton
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