Sue Nicholson, yet another of the colleagues fondly remembered from the Bishop Auckland office of the Darlington Evening Despatch, joins the Salut! House Party of Covid-19 diarists, painting a moving picture from Whitley Bay of the devastating effect of the virus on admired local businesses. Sue remembers happy days from Bishop (I remember her as by far the hippest character in the office) but also much more recent happy days by the coast until lockdown began ... all part of this site's series of coronavirus notes from around the world
The Whitley Bay bubble
Two weeks ago I blubbed in the butcher's shop, a business which has thrived in Whitley Bay for over a century. The floor was taped out in blocks to keep customers a safe distance apart and the counters, usually chock full, were three-quarters empty.
My mood had darkened as I walked with my dog along Park View, the street with lots of independent shops and recent café/bars where we often stopped for breakfast or socialised in the evenings. The bustle was gone leaving an eerie quiet: shutters were down, a couple of cafés were trying to do takeaways from the doorways but mostly windows showed hastily printed ‘closed’ signs.
By the time we reached the butcher, the full impact of coronavirus hit me. My lovely adopted seaside home, finally on the up after decades of recession, might never recover. The Spanish City Dome, made famous in Dire Straits' Tunnel of Love (…’I been riding on a ghost train where the cars they scream and slam’)* was flourishing after years of dereliction. All the new privately run bars, cafés, sourdough bakery, boutiques and restaurants full of customers. Whitley Bay was finally back on the map as a place to enjoy. Boom town…ghost town.
The coronavirus crisis didn’t exactly creep up on me but, as I am retired, I knew I had money coming in and freezer/kitchen cupboards with enough food to feed an army for a month. Weeks of staying home, no social life…ah, that wouldn’t be too uncomfortable.
My first tears were the previous week, learning that Fenwick’s department store, the pride of Newcastle upon Tyne, would close temporarily because of Covid-19. This store, still family owned with branches in a Bond Street and elsewhere, has never stopped trading since its opened in 1882. It was like a body blow.
Yesterday, I took the car out for first time in two weeks to go to Aldi but turned round as there were about 30 shoppers, distanced apart, waiting outside in a queue in the cold. I found a small Co-op instead and got all I needed (veg, cheese, flour) apart from dog biscuits but wasn’t impressed with their lack of protective equipment or distancing for staff. I used my coat sleeve to open fridge doors. Luckily I’ve managed to place an online order - delivery in three weeks - but will they have my first world necessaries of gin, loo roll and ice cubes?
I’m raging on social media about the tardiness of the Government response to this virus, yet astonished and overjoyed that Tories are having to engage with socialist principles. I’m optimistic that the NHS will be saved for public ownership by this crisis and the world, our lives, our expectations will be very different on the other side.
If I behave, I’m safe in my bubble but I'm gutted for all the businesses which may not survive - with consequent loss of jobs - and I am grateful for local traders, staff, the bin men, postal workers and delivery drivers who are still working and staying strong. Plus the neighbours who are sending portions of chilli and rainbow drawings.
I have various jobs to do around the house - wallpapering, power washing the yard, trimming the dog - but am putting off for increased social media and watching afternoon TV or Netflix. Bizarrely I’m drawn to disaster movies and suppose I’m wondering how ours will end: Contagion - how prescient is this one? You have to love the warning on films these days - Everest: emotionally intense scenes, injury, threat of death. Really?
And I’m mourning over Facebook memories showing meals out and fun with the girls, drinking over garden walls with neighbours. Every morning I’m wondering what to do first when this is over. A street party, a big noisy, boozy street party, that’s what. Sue Nicholson: born Bishop Auckland (Co Durham), brought up in Hunwick (nearby), went to Wolsingham Secondary School, have made my home in Whitley Bay since 1983. Worked as a junior reporter in the Bishop office of the Evening Despatch/Northern Echo (fun times, lasting friends) in the late 60s, then a career in public relations for TV, local authority and police. Keep my hand in helping dog with his blog: dogwuff.wordpress.com
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