The post office is one of those hybrid ones located in the local newsagency, a pleasant five minute walk from my front door on a cold winter day, with the sun slanting in from the north and clouds roaming across from the southwest. I try to pay most of the bills there because direct debit is the world of consumer finance's worst invention, as you cannot keep track of your balance.
While waiting, I browse the wall of magazines; there has always been an excellent selection of titles across music, currents affairs and old cars, three vastly different subject areas in which I have an interest. I usually walk out with a Restored Cars or a Spectator or a Vintage Rock or even a Rolls-Royce and Bentley Driver.
Until last week. I walked across the square and into the shop to pay a ridiculously high power bill. The entire east wall, instead of being covered in eye-catching magazine covers, was a shop-long panorama of slightly dusty white desolate emptiness. 'No-one buys them any more,' was the smiling excuse from the man behibd the counter. 'I do,' I answered stupidly, and somewhat self-evidently pointlessly; as clearly the decision had already been made. But, then again, what's the point of a newsagent without magazines?
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I used to be a big fan of overseas food magazines such Bon Appetit, Gourmet, La Cucina Italiana, and the Wine Spectator, which were all good for their travel writing as much as for their articles about food and recipes. Some of them are now defunct.
I will now have to investigate subscriptions, involving more direct debits, of course.
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