There’s a new Poundland recently opened in town, where Woolworths used to be, and every time we passed it Mrs Netall would suggest we go in, but I obstinately refused.
Being a true Yorkshireman, I’m the first to appreciate a bargain, but I just couldn’t bring myself to go in the place. Call me a snob if you like, but I wasn’t getting run over by one of those mobility scooters, or jostling with Frank Gallagher and his mates in the queue for anything.
Trouble is, I needed a small watering can for my seedlings, because she’s getting fed up of not being able to find her best gravy jug and giving me grief about it. Well we looked all over town but the prices were just so extortionate, I only wanted to water the things for heavens sake, not serve them champagne.
“They might have one in there”, she said, pointing to that dreaded place again as we passed, “They do have a gardening section you know”.
Now that was news to me, and my ears pricked up like a Jack Russel’s at the sound of the word “rats”. I had never thought that they sold gardening things, but then again I suppose even Frank might need some compost for his ‘special’ plants.
So taking a deep breath and casting all caution to the wind I crossed over the border, from Ingerland into Poundland.
Well I must say what a pleasant surprise I got, I didn’t get frisked on the way in, there was nobody selling heroin behind the checkouts, and there were normal people in there buying things.
There were everyday products on sale too with labels I recognised, like the cleaning things Mrs N keeps under the kitchen sink. I don’t know what she does with them, but I dare say if you mixed one or two together you could make a hell of a bang.
In fact I think there is an example of every cleaning thing known to man under there, and wonder if she ought to register with the Environmental Health people in case there’s ever a spillage.
Soon I was pointing out fantastic bargains on shelves to her, and saying things like “Look love, twelve coat hangers, only a quid”, and, “Wow, two hundred cotton buds, would you believe it”. But she just gave me one of those looks that said, ‘Don’t be so stupid, since when did you last use a coat hanger or a cotton bud’.
After passing some very dubious things in the entertainment section, such as the plastic bums and t*ts that were for sale, great for the next barbecue down a the site, I found the gardening products and it was like being a kid in a sweet shop who’s just found a fiver.
Eventually, I ferreted out just what I was looking for, a lovely little plastic one with a long spout, perfect for the job and in sunshine yellow too.
“Well, are you going to buy it then ?”, she asked, after watching me examining it for a while.
“I would if I could find out how much it is”, I replied, forgetting where I was for a moment. I looked underneath, inside, and even down the spout for the price label but couldn’t find one.
“Erm, I think there may be a clue in the name of the shop”, she said, pointing to the large sign just above my head.
I got a little carried away however, and started buying stuff that I didn’t really need but couldn’t resist.
I ended up with some blood fish and bone fertiliser, old John swears by it, a ball of string because you can never have enough string on an allotment, and two garden gnomes called Forest Fred and Fran.
Here’s Fran with her welcome sign, so she’s going near the gate.
And here’s Fred , he’s going next to my shed that was burgled recently!
