We all own products that have deep meaning to us.

We all own products that have deep meaning to us. It’s a fundamental human need to own things that speak to us in profound ways. Religious icons, sentimental gifts, children’s art.

Generally, items with sentimental value mean more than other stuff, and their value is very easy to infer. I have a small orange Dinky Toy that my beloved Grannie Baba gave me just before she died, which I hold closer than many possessions that cost way more. You undoubtedly have the same sort of thing.

I’m also interested in provenance, to the point that I know where everything that I wear was made, and how it was constructed. That adds meaning to my clothes, but the human bit, the sentimental attachment, is way more important.

Before I elaborate on this, a reminder. Last week I wrote about how human interaction is the most powerful reason for shopping/dining/drinking locally; about how a warm, professional welcome in a restaurant is more important than immaculate food and décor.

My point this week is that an item sold by someone who cares, who is interested in that product and in you, adds significant extra meaning to that product. This works for all sorts of things from the quotidian to the indulgent.

Does the carrot sold by a friendly market stall holder -the very woman who dug it up that morning- taste better than the same carrot bought from a decent greengrocer and yet rung up by a taciturn Saturday assistant?

Yup. It truly does.

Not technically perhaps (if taste is a technicality) but because it feels better, because you have built a relationship with that carrot through the most vital of human needs; connection, warmth, conversation. It’s like those books sold to me by the arrogant, chatting-amongst-themselves assistants in Daunt Notting Hill. They just don’t feel as good as the ones sold to me by Daunt’s engaged shopkeepers in Marylebone.

I was in New York last week, representing a charity of which I am president. In between meetings and dinners, I had time to visit half a dozen of my favourite book, clothes and record shops.

Here is a snap I took of Emma Hamilton’s portrait at The Frick. I show you this for three reasons. It is astonishingly beautiful. She lived in our village of Hawarden, as part of a hat trick of famous residents; we also have Gladstone and, err, Michael Owen. Third, I took this snap without realising that this is strictly forbidden. The security guy could not have been more charming in berating me; that is fantastic customer service.

I am a reasonably frequent visitor to the Big Apple, but no more than 2 or 3 times a year. And yet in each shop I was welcomed like an old friend; these shopkeepers are professionals and remember me (as I remember them) because they like people who like the same things as they do. It’s the Cheers thing, of course; we don’t go there just because the stuff is good, but because the people know us, they bring us comfort and meaning and in so doing make what we buy significant in ways that can’t be measured.

So, in these shops I buy things with meaning, even if that meaning is personal and abstract. And, of course, I spend more money than I might have had the team not recognised me. I was charmed, enthused and reminded that above everything else the humanity of our transactions is the main thing that matters and a most compelling reason for shopping locally.

We remember every single customer that visits us online and now you can come and root around at Gladstone’s Luxury Dry Goods.

See you next week.

Charlie X