The Dolphin Centre.
I had a depressing visit to a town centre last weekend. One I grew up visiting. Where I bought a Pop Swatch in 1990. And where Our Price Records was the place for adding to the CD collection.
Wherever you are, you’ll know the kind of place. You’ll have similar memories.
Urban centres materialised because they were places of exchange, assembly and visibility. They are dematerialising because all three of those purposes now come through that thing we call a phone.
Just a press on the side lights up a shopping centre where the answer to “Have you got any external hard drives?” isn’t “We have a limited range here, sir…”
Another swipe and you can anonymously people-watch.
A scroll, a comment — and you’re visible without being present.
Assembly increasingly seems to happen at paid events. Private parties, I call them. Festivals, they call them — where tickets are extortionate, if you can get one through the rigged ballots and online queues. A place where MasterCard has a better chance than you.
What are we going to do with these places? I started thinking as I walked away.
I started digging around to find what the plan is.
The first instalment is denial. Every town makes the same claim. This isn’t marketing. It’s asset protection.
Our city centre is home to all the big-name high street shops you know and love. It’s the place to go if you want to browse the likes of Primark, H&M, TK Maxx and more. Once you’ve exhausted all the shops along the High Street, pop into the Shopping Centre for even more!
OK. It’s still 2005 there. But what about the forward thinkers? What’s their vision?
Well, this reads like a council officer’s dream.
The grand plan is for our town centres to become places for — and I quote — accessible healthcare, adult education, council advice services, and housing that supports local life.
“What shall we do today, darling?” she said.
“Let’s head into town for some council services,” he said.
“Oh, but which one shall we pick today?” she said.
“I fancy some accessible healthcare, darling,” he said.
Oh, the joy.
The excitement.
The danger.
Of course, there are places that do and will work. Bath, Oxford, Cambridge, York, Weybridge. And London is basically a different species. They’ll all look after themselves.
In these places, £1 in £4 is spent on dining out.
But my interest is in the ordinary.
The ordinary house.
The ordinary town centre.
Ordinary folk doing ordinary joyful things.
In these places, £1 in £10 is spent on dining out.
The British Retail Consortium blames business rates. Even if they were abolished overnight, it wouldn’t reverse the shift to online shopping. And rents would simply rise to fill the gap.
And here I’m stuck.
I could reimagine a town centre. But what would I realistically put in it?
Street food? Markets? Independent retailers? Not likely.
Maybe that’s where the council services come from.
Not because they’re inspiring — but because they’re the only things they can’t imagine dematerialising.
I’m sorry to say that I have no solutions.
No good ideas.
But I’m increasingly sure that pretending these places still exist as we remember them is worse than admitting they no longer do.
You’ll just have to sit with that.
All the best
This Week’s Links:
My latest YouTube effort. Answering viewers’ questions to help them think clearly about what to do with their homes.
Thirty-six furniture stores for stylish house shopping.
As much as £5bn needed to revive UK’s struggling high streets, study finds.
Concrete-shell sports centre Grade II-listed.
Main Image credit: Before the day starts. (ChatGPT)
Thoughts for the Weekend & this Week’s Links
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The Dolphin Centre.
I had a depressing visit to a town centre last weekend. One I grew up visiting. Where I bought a Pop Swatch in 1990. And where Our Price Records was the place for adding to the CD collection.
Wherever you are, you’ll know the kind of place. You’ll have similar memories.
Urban centres materialised because they were places of exchange, assembly and visibility. They are dematerialising because all three of those purposes now come through that thing we call a phone.
Just a press on the side lights up a shopping centre where the answer to “Have you got any external hard drives?” isn’t “We have a limited range here, sir…”
Another swipe and you can anonymously people-watch.
A scroll, a comment — and you’re visible without being present.
Assembly increasingly seems to happen at paid events. Private parties, I call them. Festivals, they call them — where tickets are extortionate, if you can get one through the rigged ballots and online queues. A place where MasterCard has a better chance than you.
What are we going to do with these places? I started thinking as I walked away.
I started digging around to find what the plan is.
The first instalment is denial. Every town makes the same claim. This isn’t marketing. It’s asset protection.
Our city centre is home to all the big-name high street shops you know and love. It’s the place to go if you want to browse the likes of Primark, H&M, TK Maxx and more. Once you’ve exhausted all the shops along the High Street, pop into the Shopping Centre for even more!
OK. It’s still 2005 there. But what about the forward thinkers? What’s their vision?
Well, this reads like a council officer’s dream.
The grand plan is for our town centres to become places for — and I quote — accessible healthcare, adult education, council advice services, and housing that supports local life.
“What shall we do today, darling?” she said.
“Let’s head into town for some council services,” he said.
“Oh, but which one shall we pick today?” she said.
“I fancy some accessible healthcare, darling,” he said.
Oh, the joy.
The excitement.
The danger.
Of course, there are places that do and will work. Bath, Oxford, Cambridge, York, Weybridge. And London is basically a different species. They’ll all look after themselves.
In these places, £1 in £4 is spent on dining out.
But my interest is in the ordinary.
The ordinary house.
The ordinary town centre.
Ordinary folk doing ordinary joyful things.
In these places, £1 in £10 is spent on dining out.
The British Retail Consortium blames business rates. Even if they were abolished overnight, it wouldn’t reverse the shift to online shopping. And rents would simply rise to fill the gap.
And here I’m stuck.
I could reimagine a town centre. But what would I realistically put in it?
Street food? Markets? Independent retailers? Not likely.
Maybe that’s where the council services come from.
Not because they’re inspiring — but because they’re the only things they can’t imagine dematerialising.
I’m sorry to say that I have no solutions.
No good ideas.
But I’m increasingly sure that pretending these places still exist as we remember them is worse than admitting they no longer do.
You’ll just have to sit with that.
All the best
This Week’s Links:
My latest YouTube effort. Answering viewers’ questions to help them think clearly about what to do with their homes.
Thirty-six furniture stores for stylish house shopping.
As much as £5bn needed to revive UK’s struggling high streets, study finds.
Concrete-shell sports centre Grade II-listed.
Main Image credit: Before the day starts. (ChatGPT)
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