Shops closed for winter

Whenever I see a shop that is closed, I feel bereft in some way - I look at the shop window, or windows, glistening perhaps in the rain - I can see no  movement within the shop - only shadows move beyond the shuttered door -

I have, in my mind, a vision of an ideal shop - Pete, the husband of Anne's friend Maire, has such a shop - Pete's customers regard his shop as a place for counsel, a place to be soothed by his kindness and by his gentle voice - they tell him their sad and complex stories whilst they wait for a new watch battery -

Shops, I feel, should be more than soulless zones - they should be genuinely welcoming and quirky - I can find no solace in a super store -

When I was a fragile boy, I went to a green grocers - Mr Locke had elastic bands looped round his wrists - vegetables were displayed on wooden crates, placed upon the pavement - I carried home potatoes and onions in brown paper bags - I stammered out my mum's divi number when asked for it in the local co-op - 
82189 -

My sense of desolation is increased ten fold when I come across a shop which is closed for winter - I imagine the shop unloved throughout the cold dark days - I rattle its door, and peer through the glass - there might be some junk mail on the floor, or a drift of freesheets -

I saw this shop in a tiny side street leading off the seafront at Eastbourne - when I looked inside, there was no sign of life, nor of any recent activity - I was especially struck by the way the sign said closed, angled against the glass, like an angel's sword -