Last updated 05:18, Friday, 28 November 2008

Some people,when asked about their earliest memories, recall joyous childhood holidays at the seaside – with donkeys, ice cream cones, sand castles and eternal sunshine.

Not me. I see myself screaming, red-eyed and runny-nosed, perched on the top of a big grey cash register near the pick and mix counter at Woolworths – desolate, panic-stricken, convinced my heartless mother had traded me for a new ironing board and squeezy floor mop.

She may have been sorely tempted on occasion but never actually completed the transaction. She did though know never to worry about her missing daughter – so she took her time.

They were good with lost kids in Woolies. They had to be. To all intents and purposes, those many moons ago, they were the nation’s childminders. Woolworths was a safe haven for youngsters too easily mesmerised and lost to awestruck wonder at cheap blue-eyed dolls dressed in glittery net, fluorescent coloured plastic cars... and of course, pick and mix.

Those were more innocent days when there was a particular form to childhood and Woolworths was a significant milestone in it – like potty training and learning to throw food at walls.

Only weeks after you’d taken your first steps, you’d be duty-bound to toddle off on a Saturday with Mum to the treasure trove that was pick and mix. Inevitably you’d linger too long, peering on tiptoe into a pile of liquorice toffees, slipping your mother’s grip and setting a well-rehearsed rescue system into action.

Sales assistants were trained to swoop like superheroes the second a child’s face began to contort into the beginnings of a terrified scream. Just as realisation of no Mummy struck, a yelling bairn would be scooped aloft and with legs akimbo, balanced on the roof of an oversized clunky cash register. A lollipop thrust into flailing hand, there the tot would await parental collection.

Nowadays they wouldn’t get away with it without detailed risk assessment, prosecution for breach of health and safety regulations, a check with the sex offenders register and calls to social services – who may or may not take an interest beyond the nutritional value of the lolly.

But it seemed to be quite the normal Saturday routine then – the most amazing part of it being how no two children appeared to need the babysitting pick and mix cash register perch at the same time. Mothers always returned to retrieve their tearful children, offer thanks to Woolies’ emergency services, buy a bag of mixed sweets and head off to continue the weekend shop – their screaming offspring much consoled by a fistful of midget gems.

Everyone will have particular memories of Woolworths. Many women of a certain age will be able to chart most of the earlier stages of their lives with any number of Woolies recollections.

If we’re honest, it’s where we learned to shop – for pencil cases and all associated accoutrements during schooldays, for cheap Evening in Paris and California Poppy perfume when we entertained juvenile delusions of sophistication, for records and American pop star mags when we thought we were hip.

Those were the days before supermarkets had turned our heads and washed our brains into abandoning High Streets. Woolworths was one of the first one-stop shops. It was indispensable. If you wanted lemon scented soap, fuse wire, sports socks, any mag with a picture of David Cassidy on the front and Yardley’s lavender talc, Woolies was the place to go.

For three pin plugs Woolworths was a godsend. Electrical appliances were sold without them and every household knew what it was like to have cupboards stuffed with redundant lamps, irons, hairdryers – all wrapped round with frayed flexes – because plugs had been pinched by Dad to finish off new Hoovers, TVs or stereo systems.

Knitting needles and safety pins, embroidery silks and tea towels, screwdrivers and fake Christmas trees, nail scissors and Max Factor Creme Puff. From puzzle books to Black and Decker drills, there was next to nothing that couldn’t be found on Woolies’ shelves.

Sadly all gone now. Not that we no longer need a washing up bowl or a dustpan and brush but it’s been a long time since we thought to go to Woolworths for them. Now the use it or lose it premise has kicked in and we couldn’t use it even if we wanted to.

On Woolies’ tombstone will be carved the words credit crunch and recession. But they won’t be true – not strictly. That High Street institution of all things cheap fell foul of a kind of shopping snobbery... who wants to be seen in a cheap institution?

And its wonder years were anchored in another time, when town centres and their high streets were valued as hubs of spending activity – and child-minding sales assistants could pick up and comfort a crying child without risk of arrest. RIP Woolies; we’ll miss you.