AN INDEPENDENT REMEMBERS
“You’re in business, so you can afford it”
Okay, so the effort in expanding had been for the firm’s benefit (the boss always called it “the firm”), but there was something rather satisfying about sharing with others and, for the first time – maybe as a credible buyer – I felt we were part of a larger team.
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After only a few weeks, what we’d spent on alterations seemed to have been paid for many times over. Being on something of a roll was a bit like waking up on a rollercoaster: uncanny, frenzied, the windrush snatching your breath away. This was all new to us but having a walk-around store didn’t automatically encourage people to treat it like a supermarket – not even a small one. Some of them still tended to make straight for the counter and ask for something they’d already walked past. Because it was easier, of course. Our suggestions that they went back and pick it up for themselves were invariably met with a mix of angry mutterings and satanic curses. There was resentment, with some customers griping that face-to-face service was no longer on offer and the bigger we became, the less caring we were. So, we changed tack and before very long, the boss had lost half a stone in weight by chasing up and down the concrete- floored aisles. But being awash with
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he much-bigger shop meant that reps were licking their lips at the bigger orders. This made me happy.
Lazy customers, bad first impressions, and a load of old rubbish; our independent hardwareman takes a step back in time with part 28 of his stories from the shop floor
sales began to play havoc with his war injury (he’d lost a knee cap when his battleship was torpedoed in 1941), so we splashed out on a carpet. I wouldn’t say this made a lot of difference comfort-wise, but it did fuel the upmarket image we wanted to portray.
Delivery downer
The boss took the news of my Black & Decker order rather calmly. After all, I’d been right about expanding the shop, so maybe my modern ideas were being allowed some credence. To get this stuff we’d needed to open a new account with one of only a tiny, select group of wholesalers that was allowed to distribute these power tools. As part of the deal, I had chosen packs containing an electric drill with a free attachment, such as a circular saw or a Jobber portable workbench, all packed in specially- printed boxes that looked superb. We were to charge a discounted price
for a high-end hammer drill, and the value-added gadget was included gratis. These were destined to make a huge impact on our street cred (and encourage associated sales) and I eagerly awaited delivery, counting the days until the boxes would be delivered and I could finally get these on display in the windows. I’d even
bought adjustable spot lamps to make the stock stand out like pirates’ treasure. What turned up were two lower- spec drills and a sander. Yes, just three items, yet the delivery van was packed with the stuff. I got straight on the phone, only to be told all the stuff I’d seen had been reserved for the established customers. Oh, so how long did it take to get into that gang? I asked. “At this stage we don’t know how good you are at paying,” was the reply. “But at this stage I have a bloody good idea how rubbish you are at making a good impression,” was mine.
Bin there, done that The boss was having words with a tall bloke with a sizeable beer belly. Funny how you never forget some details. I could sense there was trouble. The upshot was that we were about to be charged for waste disposal. Obviously, here was some chancer on the make, so I told him we already paid rates that included shifting rubbish.
That’s when he handed me a duplicated letter from the council – with barely any ink on the page, which was typical, and our street number roughly scribbled in. He went on (and I’ll never forget the smug look on his chops) to explain that someone had looked back to
some old statute and discovered that the local councils had never been obliged to empty the bins for businesses and, from such-and-such a date, we would need to place all trade waste in special blue bags, which were available exclusively from the council offices - for an inflated price, of course. “You look pretty damned pleased about it,” the boss chimed in. The reply was: “You’re in business so you can afford it.” I still have that letter somewhere, and it goes on about some Act of Parliament or other that gives these rogue councils license to charge lots and give even less back. I went round to the council offices to see how much these bags cost, but they knew nothing about it, which didn’t surprise me. I felt so incensed and wondered if we were the only ones who became angry with these digs at small businesses. Then, a few weeks later, the motor engineer’s daughter told me about a shopkeeper, a client of hers, whose shop was in a terrace of houses. The bin men (that’s what they were called, remember?) had taken his next door neighbours’ rubbish away, no problem, yet refused to take his shop waste. So, he made an appointment with the refuse department and emptied his black waste bags onto their plush carpet and walked out. Hey, and he got away with it!
28 SEPTEMBER 2018 DIY WEEK 19
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