It's a Thursday, the unprecedented warm weather has finally succumbed to an Autumnal nip and I convince myself I need some new stationary, and maybe a book if I feel like splashing out. Where I'm from, there's only one destination for such an exotic shopping list.
The MetroCentre, The Metro, or The Intu MetroCentre as it is known by absolutely nobody outside of a few boastful welcome signs, is the kind of grotesquely behemoth retail palace that causes hypermarkets and Ikeas alike to blush. Initially met by slurred grumbles and sloshed Brown Ales across social clubs Gateshead-wide, now 28 years old locals treat it with similar affection to their bridges, pease puddings and legendary balding strikers. It provides a desirable opportunity for Geordie fashionistas to lavish themselves with just about any designer label they need, without having to battle the ever-frequent North Eastern horizontal rain.
It now stands as a relative cathedral amongst the local community, a notion peculiarly reaffirmed by the fact it is the only shopping centre in the UK to have its own chapel and resident chaplain. That, and the bragging rights that it is also the largest shopping centre in the UK. But perhaps most importantly, Sunderland doesn't have one.
Many an afternoon was spent, in my days as a impressionable adolescent, roaming its colour coded, trans Atlantic themed zones – every teenager knows Yellow Mall is where the excitement happens - wasting the little pocket money I had on fake high-top converse and Metroland admissions.
Metroland, the Metrocentre's in house theme park, is now a distant memory, confined to the Shopping Centre's history books. In its place lies a brand new ODEON cinema complex boasting the latest technology IMAX screens and D Box seats, designed to hurl their unsuspecting victim in accordance to whatever Michael Bay film they regret choosing. Whilst this gadgetry is impressive and likely to be exciting, it can never surpass my generation's memories of clinging onto Metroland's infamously precarious roller coaster, as the contents of your pockets are splayed in every direction.
Thrill-seeking opportunities aside, the Metrocentre still enjoys unrivalled popularity, and is almost certainly equipped to satisfy my need for ballpoint pens and ring binder folders. Choosing WHSmith and utilising my exhaustive knowledge of shortcuts, I take pity on an American couple clawing at the interactive maps to little avail.
"Debenhams? Just follow signs for the Red Mall or take a shortcut through the food court via the Yellow Mall, you can't miss it".
The stationary aisle of WHSmith can be described in many ways, but heated is not an adjective I'd usually associate with it. Today however is different. Two middle aged men of similar age, height and follicle weakness stare at each other in a brief moment of silence that dissects their on-going debate. What may have started out as fairly amiable converse has evidently descended into a polemical roar of binary opposites. Evident to everyone but the pair involved, of course.
As I surreptitiously lurk in the corner, half concentrating on examining the benefits of numbered file dividers against their alphabetical brethren and half focused on eavesdropping, I realise they are arguing over Scottish Independence. The no contingent seems to be reeling off some pre-rehearsed – or well-practiced – tirade about currency, whilst the yes party shakes his head and mumbles bollocks. Essentially, they are making the 'pens and fineliners' section of the store an accurate microcosm of the whole independence debate thus far.
Before I can realise that wearing a tartan shirt on today of all days was a terrible mistake, Alex Salmond's right hand man catches my eye line.
"He-a mate, tell'im he's speaking a laad of crap"
Laughing gingerly and shaking my head in a manner which screams I really don't want to get involved, I realise both are now staring, expecting my expressed opinion on the matter. Instinct probably tells me to remain firmly on the fence. After all, of all people I think I have right to.
My first name, George, bleeds England. Patron saints and royal babies aside, it just sounds very strawberries and cream. Even more so if you pronounce it as if you were raised in the Home Counties, wherever they are: "Jooooorg-e". My second name however, Aird, as well as being serially mispronounced by call centres around the globe, is largely acknowledged to be of Scottish origins, so a bit more towards whisky and shortbread.
My ancestral lineage as well, traces back to 'The Airds Of The English Scottish Borderlinings". Whilst that title sounds quite impressive, it realistically only amounts to a load of Great Great Great Uncles losing their temper over Berwick.
Still, that was unlikely to suffice as a reasonable excuse for my neutrality. Fortunately though, and before I could say anything so misinformed that The Battle Of Green Mall would have to be added to Bannockburn et al, I was excused because WHSmith Wallace provoked retaliation by declaring it Independence Eve.
I retreat downstairs to the book section, armed with two folders in anticipation of the increasingly likely case I find a Saltire clad army ready to release hardback projectiles at the Anglo oppressors. In the end, I only find books and a cardboard cutout of Alan Titchmarsh.
The non-fiction section, whole rows of John Green novels and 50 shades spin offs, as well as being substandard weapons, didn't particularly inspire my literary interests. And whilst I'm sure the offerings of healthy living from River Cottage and essentials from Mary Berry are stirring reads, they weren't quite what I was looking for. On the way to the till, Caitlin Moran's How to Build A Girl tucked into a corner tempts me, given the repeated recommendation by a university friend, but I save my student budget on account of an unread Bill Bryson back home. Sorry, Caitlin.
I must have been visibly shaken by my confrontation because Sarah on the till - I know this detail due to her nametag, and not that age-old aphorism that everyone 'up north' knows each other - offered me "anything off the counter for half price, pet" with surplus amicable enthusiasm. Or maybe she was just being friendly. Geordies after all, are renowned for their reassuring tones.
It's why call centres working for huge southern conglomerates flock to the North Eastern coast to swoop up the motherly types from Low Fell and South Shields. Jason Manford rightly pointed out that it would be impossible to unleash a tirade of abuse at your insurance company if a maternal Geordie answered the phone, which they invariably do. I concede that, even if I had arrived at the till with a compass jammed in my iris and Jo Nesbo's latest offering lodged into my skull, the offer of a half price Twix from Sarah would still be tempting.
Unfortunately for her though, no amount of warm vernacular would bowl me over today. Heart still pounding from the unplanned human interaction, I decide to divert via Starbucks on my way out, in the slightly warped hope that coffee might ease my pulse.
After Metroland closed - and to be honest we had outgrown smuggling slush puppies onto the waltzers by the time it did - we had to find a new place to linger on Saturdays. Not prepared to let the Metrocentre go, and unconvinced by the prospect of Vitamin D exposure, Starbucks became our new favourite haunt.
In those days it was less about the caffeine, on account of nobody liking coffee, and more about giving off the heir of popularity by roaming in large packs. We'd occupy the comfortable seating areas and ingest unthinkable amounts of glucose in the form of smoothies and frappucinos. I of course, self conscious and self-admittedly less aesthetically appealing than most of my friends (most), was just glad to be involved, especially when girls would talk to us as a group. A bit like Ringo Starr.
Times have changed, but my taste for caffeine hasn't. The only difference now is that I pretend to like it, ordering caramel lattes in the knowledge that the large proportion of milk and caramel flavourings mask any identity the bean may have once had. After the Starbucks man – his obscured name tag means he will have to remain anonymous – loudly calls out my order of a medium caramel latte, provoking disdainful looks from surrounding espresso connoisseurs, he gestures at my shirt.
"So, what do you think, yes or no?"
Pausing only to consider what method I will employ to destroy my tartan garment after all of today's unwarranted attention, I tell him I don't mind as long as it doesn't result in more Rough Wooing. Unfortunately not clued up on his English vs. Scottish battle history, and looking slightly concerned that 'Rough Wooing' is a euphemism and I have just made a pass at him, he hands over my cup of imitation coffee and wishes me a nice day.
To some people, the idea of sitting in Starbucks is tantamount to theft, or beating up a pensioner. Shame on me for funding the infamous, tax-dodging, corporate, fascist, capitalist regime, they would shout, or type in caps lock from their bedrooms. Whilst I agree that tax dodging isn't something I particularly endorse on a personal level, I don't openly frequent Starbucks under some political incitement. I go because they make nice biscuit waffle things, do nice warm caramel drinks that are passable as coffee, and I enjoy their brand of comfortable seating.
Taking the opportunity to do some writing on my laptop - yes it is made by Apple, call me a vapid human being with no morals – I spot the elderly woman next to me is wrestling with her phone's operating system. Not in the crimson faced Audi driving, I'm about to hurl my phone across the room with unparalleled velocity kind of way. She was more a plaintive and introspective with her minor struggle, and sighed 'I give up' after a few more attempts.
At which point I interject, thinking I was being funny or witty but achieving neither of these things; "I'd blame Bono". She was using an IPhone, you see. The reference to U2 goes completely unacknowledged but she does gesture at her phone in an invitational manner which I can only assume means she doesn't think I'm an idiot, and she would like me to help fix her phone.
She had accidentally turned the brightness onto its lowest setting and couldn't figure out how to undo it. Her daughter had bought her the phone a couple of weeks previously because she liked the bright green colour and was always commenting how nice her granddaughter's phones were. Surprisingly she also started telling me how she didn't particularly like IOS8, claiming it took far too long to download for relatively little in the way of noticeable change. I consider that perhaps she did understand my previous Bono reference, and it just really wasn't that funny.
After this we get talking. June, as it turns out she is called, tells me she has always liked "what you'd call gadgets these days, but we used to call them inventions". In her late twenties she bought a classic mini, which she updated with new lights, mirrors, tires and all manner of accessories. Her husband was a doctor, but she always kept herself busy working in cafes and shops.
You must understand June, despite my only description of her as an elderly woman, she did not appear an elderly woman at all. She spoke with a flourish and an enthusiasm seldom seen out of youthful people chatting with their close friends. She was all lively mannerisms and smiles whilst my answers must have seemed monosyllabic mumbles in comparison.
Steadily I begin to notice that June, speaking of her life recently, hadn't mentioned her husband and although she never explicitly says it, I assume what most would. She also tells me she wished her daughter wouldn't worry so much about her, especially after the doctor recently diagnosed her with depression and suggested counselling.
Obviously I was somewhat taken aback. Not only was she revealing this to a complete stranger, the nonchalant way she broached this topic was as if she was telling me what she was getting from the shops. But as well as that, I guess we just don't consider older people's capacity for things like depression. We jump to conclusions with the elderly, they are either just getting old or have been lost to dementia.
Recently, when we think about things like depression, we tend to think Jennifer Lawrence and Bradley Cooper in Silver Linings Playbook. Some beautiful young people whose illness is debilitating but at the same time darkly fascinating and unpredictable. In a sense, we have romanticised it a bit, and while I would never go as far as to blame a genuinely brilliant film for this, it doesn't hurt to widen our perspective sometimes. Depression isn't just lonely teenagers shut in their room, but can be a captivating, gregarious 70-something year old woman who would rather nip out for a coffee than sit in with the television as company.
June pointed over to my laptop and notebook on the table and, quite obviously seeing the blank word document asked what I was writing. In truth at this point I didn't know, and just as I had not answered the Scottish independence interrogation, she saw I had no answer.
'Why not just write about today, I find it's a good place to start'.
You may be convinced that the seemingly oracular June is a bit too good to be true, and that the past 500 or so words have been a figment of my imagination. I assure you that's not the case, it was just one of those rare occasions that humans actually take time to communicate with one another face to face. I did however ask for a picture to accompany my story, but she just laughed.
"No thanks, the camera is the one invention I never liked."
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