THE SHOP WINDOW

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 3719, 16 November 1926, Page 7

THE SHOP WINDOW

IRRESISTIBLE ATTRACTION ANALYSING A HUMAN PROPENSITY We all have our own especial weakness when ,shop-dazing. It is popularly, and erroneously, supposed that women are held irresistibly by a display ol hats (whereas it is probable that, where dress is concerned at all, the majority are more attracted by a window full ol shoos), while the interest ol men is believed to centre solely on wireless and motor accessories or on tools- — a report that, lor all 1 know, may be equally far from the truth (writes Noel Saxelbv, in the ‘Manchester Guardian Hut by “especial weakness” I mean that for most of us there are certain sorts of window which hold lor us a peculiar lure, quite irrespective of our actual needs. For one person kitchen utensils wear always a halo of romance; the sight ol sinning aluminium kettles and saucepans, ol enamel bowls and Hour tins, chopping boards and washing-up mops stirs a lust oI possession that has to be fought down with a firm hand. Another person can spend long moments studying bacon, cheese, and tinned goods in a grocer s window, and cannot be restrained iioin buying unnecesssary biscuits and jams if these arc attractively displayed. A third cannot pass cut glass, while a fourth hangs entranced before an antique shop, Book temples—whether of the new or second-hand variety have many faithful worshippers; and seed, plant, and hull) shops arc never w dnout a line of silent and absorbed devotees outside. Personally, I am held as_ in a vyce before any display of stationery. L think n. good many people share this taste, and we are lucky in that a lew enlightened stationers have an occasional sale, and add to the attraction of their windows by offering envelopes at some startling small sum per thousand, stout packets of post cards at a reduction of perhaps a halfpenny a packet (post cards are stiffly conservative. and do not lend themselves readily to the remnant idea), and an intoxicating array ot pads and compendiums (tied together in batches of three) at a price that calls as seductively to the coins in one’s purse as the Pied Pipex s music called to the rats ol Hamel in. it is difficult to understand why account books should have such an attraction for one who cannot keep accounts correctly. Rows ol new pencils aie an impressive sight, and one regards with awe anyone who just walks in and buys one casually, instead of trusting—as most of us do—to the yield from rubbish drawers, pockets, and handbags; or who buys scribbling paper in large untouched piles, instead of resorting to the store of half-used exercise books, hoarded from school days. A stationer’s window has something ot fhe quality of a mirage. It raises hopes and intentions that too often prove insubstantial. Box files invariably inspire a delusive dream of efficiency and a wellordered mind; ledgers and thick piles of paper are equally airy vision of a steady, methodical output of work. The small fry of a stationer’s window is equally seductife. Shining pen mbs (although one always uses a iountain pen), paper clips and drawing pins, pencil sharpeners and indiaruhhers arouse a passion to purchase. One of the strongest impression's leit on my mind ot a particularly charming pleasure resort where I stayed as a small child is of a certain stationer’s shop, where otic could become the entranced owner ol little blotting books, with eight sheets of different colored blotting paper apiece, for the modest expenditure of a penny. One put off using these as long as possible—it was a pity to sully the delicate pages —but one experienced a deep sense of pleasure in merely possessing and handling them. One would buy more, intending them as presents, hut stationery is a terribly difficult tiling to give away. ... I. cannot understand how any stationer —any horn stationer —manages to make a living; it must bo so difficult to part with his things, even in exchange for good money. Apart Irom that, it must he a profession full ol charm — clean and tidy and with a -delightlully spicy flavor in the air of ink and new paper and cedar pencils. Miss Stella Benson must have felt the charm, lor was not her Sarah Brown’s “ dream ol a perfect old age” staged in a stationer’s shop in a quiet brown street; there she would spend twilit (lays in stroking thick blotting paper, in drawing dogs—all looking one way—with new pen nibs, in giving advice in a hushed voice to connoisseur customers who should come to buy a diary or a bookplate or a fountain pen with the same reverence as they now show who come to buy old wine. . • .