Your note-writer, Paff, works on the Channel Island of Jersey, but lives in Devon, England. He spends most of his working week looking at the inside of the airport, the inside of a cab, the inside of an office or the inside of his eyelids. He must try to get out more. When he does get out, these notes are the result.

Going downtown tonight.

At the far western end of what one might well call St Helier's main street is an area that one might well call a small apartment district. Let's cross the road from here and head east into St Helier good and proper.

On the corner is a pub — the kind of pub where those in the know joke about the diseases you can catch from the dirty glasses. The patrons of said pub stand outside, holding said dirty glasses in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The air is as blue as the smoke is grey, all rowdy racket and coarsely confrontational banter.

A minute up the road is another pub — the kind of pub that is trying desperately to attract a different kind of clientele. There's outside seating, for a start. The chalkboard advertises football matches on the big-screen TV, but also warns that dirty work clothes won't be tolerated in the bar.

Another minute up the road and we are in what one might well call a sandwich shop district. Big J's, Loaf and Mange Tout cater for a variety of tastes — the names tell you all you need to know. A few doors down is the Curiosity Coffee Shop, nowadays making a bigger deal of their free wi-fi internet access since the internet café across the road shut down. Inside, the coffee shop could be mistaken for dim, dark and dingy, but the eclectic furniture and the soft jazz playing in the background tell a different story; The lights are deliberately down low. Laid-back coffee for chilled-out people.

Continuing on is the town centre proper. The high street becomes pedestrianised: cars are diverted elsewhere and tarmac and paving slabs are replaced by cobbles. With the cars gone you can now hear the sound of footsteps on those cobbles and a general sort of shopper chatter. Above the street noise, there's the sound of gulls, which could mean either of two things: the sea is nearby, or sea birds are on the scavenge. In St Helier, the sound of gulls indicates the former and not the latter. This place is clean. The street-sweepers are out every morning and the dustmen come round twice a week. Those scavenging seagulls will be lucky if they find a bite to eat in town this evening.

Stand in the street centre and look around. At first glance, this could be any shopping town in the UK. There are the usual high-street stores, plus an assortment of other more individual shops. Look more closely, though, and there are signs that this isn't mainland UK. Look down: along the bottom of the shop windows¹ the sign-writing informs shoppers that the goods behind the glass are VAT-free. Look up: above the first storey of the buildings are the street name signs — those aren't English names, they're French. Look over there: that's a yellow phone box. Listen close: there are foreign languages being spoken in the street, although that could be excused away as being tourists. But venture inside some of the more personal stores and it seems that some shop-keepers are happy to speak French to their customers² and all without waving their hands around and shouting. This isn't mainland UK. The other giveaway is the proliferation of cafés and restaurants with outside seating, all of which give this place a distinctly continental appearance. This is particularly noticeable when glancing up the side streets.

Ahead, now, the cobbled pedestrianised area comes to an end. The road and the pavement are back. Continue a bit further still and there is what one might well call another apartment district. Time to turn back.

Let's turn around and come back on the quieter side streets. At this end of town, that distinctly continental look develops into a distinctly continental ambience. Glasses chink. Couples laugh. Waiters verify and scurry away. All hushed hubbub and softly spoken civility.

A narrow alley leads into an open square. From the far corner of the square comes the muted murmur of more outdoor drinking and dining, while the rest of the square is filled with the distinct sound of nothingness, save for the echo of cutlery against crockery. A lucky lone seagull politely pitter-patters about with a single chip. Someone has been considerate enough to dip it in ketchup before discarding it. Suspiciously nearby, a suited guy sits on a bench with his laptop and a burger.

Other side of the square now, and out into what one might well call the banking district. There are the usual players, and then the not so usual: This Private Bank; That International Bank; Other Offshore Investments; Further Global Wealth Management Services; Coutts. Yep, while most offshore banking establishments are trying too hard with their fancy titles, Coutts — bank of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II — out-cools everyone with a simple 'Coutts' in script writing on a brass plaque.

Almost back now. The proprietor of a smart coffee outlet prepares to shut up shop and she pulls the pavement sign back inside the front door. There's no dim, dark, dinginess here — it's all beech wood effect floors and stainless steel counters. Cutting-edge coffee for city slickers.

We've worked our way round full circle now and have joined the main street again. The smokers are still standing outside the door of the pub on the corner with their dirty pints, huddled slightly now against the nip of the evening air. No different, really, than the other end of town. Just here, they're putting the world to rights in words of one syllable and four letters.

Notes from a (Very) Small Island Archive

Paff

06.09.07 Front Page

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