Shopping, sex and death in Northenden

Before I roam around the world I ought to keep a close eye on what's
going on in my own village in South Manchester. I don't live in an
actual village, but Northenden has a village feel on account of its
situation in a triangle of motorways and major roads. There's none of
this "Didsbury Borders" or "South Chorlton" nonsense, you either live
in Northenden or you don't. For a suburb of a major city, there's
surprisingly little migration here; most residents have lived here most
of their lives, respectable families formerly from the Wythenshawe
council estate who've made good and hover on the boundary between
upper-working-class and lower-middle-class, people who always go to
school parents' evenings but still feed their kids on the crappest junk
foods, people who buy their kids verbal reasoning books to cram them
for the Trafford 11-plus exam but still read the Sun. For example, take
this morning; I went to the newsagents (admittedly, not my normal one):



Me: Have you got "The Times"? (not seeing one on display)



Newsagent: We've sold it.


Me: It? Did you only order one?


Newsagent: Oh, no, we ordered three, but we've sold them all.



There's also a few youngish professionals buying their
starter home, and a mere smattering of racial minorities and students;
not typical Manchester at all.


Because there isn't an inch of space to build on, most of the
houses, and many of the inhabitants, are relatively old; in fact, our
ward has the oldest population profile in the city. There's another
reason for this; the secondary schools into which the two local primary
schools feed are all in the Manchester council estates from which the
Northenden families escaped; parental strategies to avoid sending their
children back into Wythenshawe have included: becoming religious (to
get into the well-regarded Church Of England secondary school): taking
the Trafford 11-plus (see above): applying to Trafford for a spare
place in a Trafford secondary modern - many people who live in Trafford
rave about the "quality education" provided by Trafford grammar schools
but when their kids don't pass the 11-plus they send them on the train
to Knutsford comprehensive in leafy Cheshire or pay for private
schooling - and, finally, giving the Manchester education authority
continuous hassle until they allocate a place at Parrs Wood school in
trendy Didsbury. But these ruses are working less and less, and the
only cast-iron successful strategy is to move out of Manchester
altogether as the kids grow up; both the Stockport and Trafford borders
are only a couple of miles away so you aren't talking major migration
here.


Anyway, back to Northenden; on the corner between Palatine
Road and Church Road, the main intersection and therefore the prime
site, two competing funeral parlours vie for business. On the subject
of parlours, there's also a massage parlour, but that's much more
discreet, for this isn't a red-light district (yet!) and the modest
door with its tiny plaque could easily be mistaken for the entrance to
a dental surgery or an exclusive solicitor's, which in a way it is.



The shopping area has gone the way of many similar suburbs,
squeezed by the huge supermarkets and the renowned Trafford Centre; no
one does their weekly shopping in Northenden any more because there's
very little parking near to the shops. Many premises have become
takeaways and restaurants; there's several places to buy a doner kebab
but nowhere to buy a pair of men's trousers, and the last butcher
closed a couple of years ago. But there aren't too many derelict sites
either, for there's always someone who wants to open a niche business
in the area, and there's a Kwik Save at the far end of the village and
a recently refurbished Tesco at my end for day-to-day groceries. The
niche businesses, however, have a mixed record; the menswear shop
didn't last long and, sadly, neither did the cut-price bookshop -
despite the high levels of home ownership, most Northenden people
simply aren't bookish and weren't tempted by cheap remainders. DIY
shops, florists (remember the funeral parlours!), cheap carpet
retailers, hairdressers and beauty salons, including one for dogs, have
done much better. So I'm wondering how the latest venture will pan out;
Northenden's very own sex shop! Of course here in suburbia it's not
called a sex shop, rather it's a "fun and love emporium" (I kid you
not!) with a cutesy little name and a discreet window display and is
making a big play for the Valentine's Day market. It sells "lingerie",
which is respectable enough - indeed, necessary apparel - but gives the
game away with the word "gadgets". Gadgets, eh? Maybe it's the place to
go the next time we mislay the can opener or the corkscrew, or need a
new stapler? What do you think?


So, as I walked down Church Road past the library the other
day I glanced briefly at the twee sex shop, then crossed the side road
and passed the funeral director's; through the bow window I could see
straight into the visitors' reception room where three people were
sitting, including a sombrely-dressed young man whose puffy eyes bore
the signs of recent weeping. His grief was insensitively displayed to
all passers-by including dozens of passengers on the buses which stop
right outside, but wasn't this representative of good old traditional
British suburban values - sex coyly hinted at behind closed doors, but
death right there in your face?


I averted my eyes and hurried on, for I still needed bread
and milk from Tesco.

Postscript January 2004: Northenden is now a "Village Of Vice",
according to the local free paper; the cutesy sex shop soon closed down
but another massage parlour opened on the main road, having received
planning permission for a "health club". Meanwhile the reputable beauty
salons are cheesed off as they have a constant stream of men asking
them for "extras"; I did get a massage at one of them once but it was
very above board, not to mention above waist, and the pedicures are
delightfully sensual but not in the way you might imagine. The vicar's
very peeved about it all too - "Hot under the collar" as the paper
unoriginally punned - but actually I think "Village Of Vice" has a nice
ring to it, a sort of hotbed of homely perversity. I like it here.