Welcome to My Town

One day you go into a Town, a Town in a London suburb whose shopping centres and high streets you have wondered around either aimlessly or with purpose for most of your adolescent and adult life. Prior to that, you were probably pushed around this town, kicking and screaming like some kind of demonic midget in a pram. And every other time you've been there you've been quite content. You've trudged from shop to shop with the masses and never really noticed what's happening.

Then one day, you'll go into Town because you're back from travelling, unemployed and want to get a football that will survive more than five minutes in the jaws of your saber-toothed Labradors. And you'll realise that your Town isn't actually a Town in it's own right. It's strangely familiar. Too familiar. In fact, it's a carbon copy.

You sit in a cafe that was once Italian before it was everywhere, drinking a mango frappacino thing you chose out of a fridge. It's served to you by a girl who couldn't care less, and you drink it at a table that hasn't been cleaned yet, on an armchair that's seen better days. But it's by the window, so you avert your eyes from the inoffensive brown interior and turn your attention to what's outside.

The occasional office worker rushes towards Marks and Spencer, dismissing a clipboard carrying charity worker who you've watched smile unconvincingly before approaching tracksuit-clad passers by. They clutch phones, develop a sudden interest in their iPod, shake heads and raise hands, doing their utmost to avoid the spiel.

Barratts, Claire's Accessories, Sport and Soccer. Monsoon, Accessorize. Behind the glass, River Island's usual selection of clothing, liberally littered with diamante studs and careful rips; the odd splash of luminous pink. Jane Norman's overpriced selection for those who prefer their boobs and bums covered in tacky, floral Lycra. Primark and it's hoards of careless shoppers, trampling on the clothes they'll buy tomorrow. Faith has closed. La Senza's windows show the same deals as they did in 1990, for underwear that always comes up that little bit smaller than everywhere else. Screaming children flank bored parents in Starbucks. JD Sports: for people who don't play sport, but watch it in pubs. Phone shops for every network. WH Smith for magazines. British Home Stores trying to be cool, again. Debenhams. Oh, God. Debenhams. Catalogue shopping at it's best, it's Argos: listen for your number, then come on down.

Welcome to the Town High Street. You don't need to know the name; it's the same as every other British High Street in the UK. You'll know when you've arrived because there's not an independent store, cafe or restaurant in sight.

Depressing. 

Bloody depressing.