Rhubarb. And custard.

Ever wonder about all the faces in the crowd you see on the TV or in movies? Who are they? How do they get there? How much do they get paid--and do they ever get to rub shoulders with the stars? After leaving my radio producer`s job with the BBC, I signed up with three agencies for fun, really, and seem to pop up quite regularly now in anything from prime time soaps to feature films. Want the inside story on the stars? Buy one of those weekly mags. Extras are sworn to secrecy. So...this is the latest instalment on the `ordinary` people ....whose names you never get to know.....

Miming looks so easy, doesn`t it?

You just speak--without the sound.

That`s what I thought before I started working as a film and TV extra. Then you hear the words: `.....aaaaaaaaaand.....ACTION...`  and you realise you probably should have sorted out your game plan first.

You`re not important,but you might be `in shot`...so you have to say something. Anything, really, but remember people can lip-read, so nothing saucy. And it`s no good `talking` at the same time as the person you`ve been paired up with. That would look daft.

In my eight months as a TV and film extra, I`ve just been whispering stuff very quietly, and nodding and smiling a bit. It`s gone down OK. I`ve tried the technique in Corrie, Emmerdale, a couple of feature films, a Japanese soft drinks advert, an ITV drama series, a kids` show and a comedy or two. And I haven`t been chucked out yet.

But the other day, I met and married Graham. Sort of. It was a two day `marriage of convenience` for the purposes of a prime time soap. And I realised he was a bit of an expert in the art of talking --no, miming--complete and utter rhubarb.

The stars were filming a few metres away. This was a real `longshot`. Nevertheless, `my husband and I` got placed on a sumptuous sofa in the garden room of the location--an exquisite country house hotel. Before us, on a low table, two porcelain cups and saucers, and a solid silver coffee pot,along with sugar bowl, tongs and spoons. Graham was given his `prop`--a mere newspaper. That left me with the challenge of pouring, stirring, and handing over his cup....silently.

`......aaaaaaaand...ACTION!`

I needn`t have worried. One command and Graham was off. As I gestured towards the coffee pot, with a carefully raised eyebrow (order my Oscar now...) he smiled, nodded, and then got into his stride.. jabbing at an article in the paper, shaking his head and tutting as quietly as anyone could....and then....mouthing complete and utter twaddle. Bits of words. Snatches of sentences. I realised I was frowning to work out what the devil he was saying. Until ....`CUT! `restored his power of intelligible speech. Actually, it was quite masterful and I`ll try his technique next time.

Graham was just one of a lovely bunch on set that day. His background was, ironically, in the world of real soap--the froth n` bubble variety. He`d been an executive for a major company based in Africa. Between shoots, I heard all kinds of tales, about luxury living, raising a family thousands of miles from home, and resettling back in Blighty.

He swapped hair-raising stories with Peter, who knew Nigeria well. Jason was there too--a mature drama school student who`d reassessed his life after nearly losing it in a holiday balcony fall. There was Johnny, an ex forces pilot, and lovely Michael from the Wirral, one of dozens of retired police officers who seem to find their way into extras work. Over two days we acted (a bit), chatted (a lot), watched a lively soap storyline being filmed in a gorgeous setting, got paid...and got incredibly well fed.

 In fact--they feed you so well, sometimes, that it can be a struggle to manage your tray, loaded with plates, dishes and cutlery, and your bag, and heels, often, down the steps from the catering truck and then up into the extras` double decker diner.... which is where the custard came in....or out, really, dribbling dangerously over the edge of Liverpudlian Pauline`s dish, curling over the edge of her slightly sloping tray and funnelling neatly into a tiny gap in her handbag, before reaching into its murky depths and spreading itself over the contents.

Messy for Pauline, but she laughed; we all did--then tidied ourselves up and got back on set: a bus load of shadows behind the stars...clocking up another (sometimes sticky ) day in the life of an extra.

+ Fancy being an extra too? Want to hear about the `extra` I met on Coronation Street, who works in between lifesaving dialysis treatments? Click on `Life as an extra` under Topics (up there on the right)...and see some hints and tips on getting started. Make sure you come and say hello if you see me on set !  :)

Coal, koalas and a dad with dementia

Who cares? Well, you do, when your baby`s new. Every blinkin moment. Later in life, when you`re old and infirm, maybe those roles will be reversed.

It`s a perfect blend of pride and panic, isn`t it,when they hand your newborn over.You`re completely responsible for every nanosecond of their life. And you really don`t have a clue how you`ll cope. It`s like starting a brand new job in a blindfold. Terrifying. But you feel your way. Learn as you go. And the rewards just keep on coming.

Not that there aren`t screamingly manic moments along the way. Those supermarket toddler tantrums when everyone stares.That aching tiredness from a week of sleepless nights. The fraught mornings when you`re late for the school run; late for work, your youngest is wearing two left shoes and is massaging a dollop of strawberry jam through her long hair like a Trevor Sorbie conditioning treatment. Oh and the car won`t start.And when it does,alongside the revs, is the gleeful repetition of the F word that she heard you scream. Been there?

Years down the line...they help you a bit in return, don`t they? Show you how to synch your i-phone and stuff. Download music. Retrieve lost files.They know you need their help. So it`s their turn to provide it.

There was more of that role reversal thing in New York last summer. I was standing alone in Times Square while the girls `finished` their shopping. (This was a lie. It never ends). I was completely absorbed as a television team filmed some interviews. And while I watched them work, one of the camera crew had apparently been watching me. He ambled over. And invited me to a party.Yes I know he was probably a complete creep but I felt strangely flattered. I mean...it was New York! And as I opened my mouth to reply...I heard my voice, my tone, only younger. My 14 year old had returned silently, peeped over my shoulder, clocked the date on the invite and told the bloke: " She can`t. She`s flying home tomorrow."

One day, maybe, I`ll be glad she`s looking out for me. I saw dad today. He lives three hours away. He`s 83 and has Alzheimer`s. We had coffee and sandwiches, and posh cookies from M and S. Only a few years ago, we`d have spent those two hours laughing endlessly about our shared family memories, or sparring over politics, fighting to get a word in edgeways. Now, the task of remembering what he had for breakfast is a challenge. And there are no questions back. No natural dialogue. His once razor sharp mind has been dulled; dumbed down, by dementia.

You sometimes get a flash of those long held memories though. They`re moments to cherish. Like the day I rang, and told him I`d spent the day by the sea. He broke into a near perfect rendition of Sea Fever, by Masefield; which was pretty stunning.

How many pictures does his monochrome mind retain now, though? Can he see himself as the 14 year old following his dad and grandad into the same Scottish coalmine..because that`s `what they did` in those days? Can he recapture the moment when he decided to get out of the dark, study hard, leave the village and take his first ever trip to London on the sleeper down to King`s Cross? How terrified was he on his first day on the beat as a London bobby in Harrow Road, with that stiff, scratchy collar and an accent no-one understood? How often now, does he compare those days with what was to come--selection for an amazing, elite role which saw him travelling the world, in private jets sometimes, destined for sparkling palaces.No coal. No dust. No crawling through low, dark tunnels because that`s `what you did`.

Even though he hardly ever got a break on those trips abroad, he`d always find local markets and buy gifts

for us. Today I could remind him about how much pleasure they gave us: Koalas from Canberra; trinkets from Katmandhu; hippy scarves from San Francisco. There were African dolls made of black cotton and raffia, with baskets full of fruit on their heads, silver bangles and turquoise rings from Mexico; grass skirted dolls and rows of beads from Tonga-- no one got `business trip` gifts like the ones our dad brought back; and the stories about the places he`d seen were worth a million geography lessons.

Even when he had to spend weeks at Balmoral in Scotland one year, and summer turned to autumn, he gathered dozens of different leaves from the local woodlands, and stuck them in two, identical books; one for me, one for my sister, with all the tree names labelled, so we could get a sense of the glorious changing season around him. You could smell the pine and squeeze the little Rowan berries till the juice spurted out.

Today, when it was time for them to take me to the station, I helped him on with his coat. Found his walking stick. Remembered his tough,tall presence beside me at all kinds of moments in my life. Today it was a frail frame leaning on me,as we walked tentatively to the car.That blend of panic and pride I felt as a new parent was back again.Fear, this time, about what lies ahead for dad. But so much pride about his past.

Or am I losing my mind...?

...so I was having lunch with a friend. We`d both seen our dads the day before. Both have dementia so, inevitably, we spent a fair amount of time comparing notes.

My visit involved quite a complicated journey: two stretches by car, a train journey to London and a  couple of tube trips...pretty much five hours each way. I`m quite a fan of travelling, and an even bigger fan of my dad, so that was OK.

When I got there, we had a plate of sandwiches and some coffee and a disjointed conversation about what he`d been up to (quite a lot, actually, but he`d forgotten most of it...). Then he dozed off.

It gave me and his partner the chance for one of those tricky conversations you have to have when your loved one`s brain is wrapped in the thick fog of dementia..and isn`t likely to clear any time soon. We chatted about he`s sleeping more and talking less, and how his dulled mind is so slow to react during the day, even with people he`s known a lifetime. But then it leaps into terrifying technicolour later with a double bill of nocturnal nightmares so vivid, that he wakes, and bizarrely, can relate their every detail with the utmost clarity. Just when they both need a kip.

We touched on a few of the `what ifs`. The` money side` of things. And the thorniest of prickly issues, the topic of `personal care`, and his growing dependence. Conclusions? None reached. We have no crystal ball, no private fortune, and very few answers, but we resolved to both make calls and talk again in a few days.

Soon after that, Dad woke up--just as I needed to leave for my London bound train on the first leg of my journey home. There`s usually one ray of sunshine amidst the murk and gloom of a day watching your rapidly declining Dad. Last time it had been his sudden and accurate recital of a passage of Masefield, after I`d mentioned my trip to the beach. This time, I`d tried to stir his love of sport with talk of the Olympics: the build up; who we`d be watching.

Nothing.

So I dug a bit deeper, to how he`d loved watching my sister and I running at school. I asked if he remembered what he used to call out to us.

"Run like hell, Jane, " he shouted out, his eyes alive,and sparkling, " and don`t wait for anyone!".

Not much, but word perfect, and enough to send me home with a smile. So the next day, during that lunch with my friend, we joked, then worried about those moments you`re told `everyone` has, during a busy life of juggling. You know..walking into a room and realising you have no idea why you`re there. Losing your keys and finding them some time later...in the fridge.

What if there was a quick test we could take, we pondered, to see if we were likely to develop dementia, just like our dads? Would we take it? It would help us `plan ahead`, for sure, but would it also blight our lives?

Conclusion? Again--none reached, but the company was close and comforting and a distraction from a topic that we`d rather leave right there: in the back of our minds.

How about you? Given the chance of a definitive genetic test for dementia--would you take it? Would you relish the chance to make plans, and take the pressure off your family? Or would you prefer to keep your head in the sand? I`d love to know what you think. 

Rome alone--and a scare in the air.

Just over a week ago, I was waving our 16 year old daughter off at Manchester airport on her first flight alone. It seemed simple enough. Plane to Chicago, plane to Minneapolis, for a couple of weeks volunteering at Camp America, where her big sister`s working her third summer.

She was excited, and anxious to check in, so I left her, and, feeling just a bit misty eyed, sought solace in a fat almond croissant and a big mug of coffee in terminal 3 before heading home.

At lunchtime; a text .One of those that starts with the words: `Hi Mum. Don`t worry, but....`

If you follow me on Twitter, you might have seen what happened. A fire alarm had gone off on her plane, high above the Atlantic. They were still close enough to the Irish coast to head back for an emergency landing--no chutes but fire engines and sirens.She`d been terrified. Hours later, they were still holed up at Shannon Airport, hoping to get airborne again, but eventually bussed to a hotel for the night instead. And then another hotel as the first one was full. That meant rebooking connections and a complete rethink of complicated pick up plans.

The passengers set off again the next morning, 24 hours late. Finally, they landed in Chicago.Without the high kicks. Or their luggage. That was still in Shannon.

And Alice, like many of those on board still had to continue their journeys, not quite knowing when their luggage would follow.

Miraculously, she stayed cool, and her bag was delivered to camp the next day, by courier. She`s now having a whale of a time, but it was no way to start a trip she`d spent months planning; and a scary first solo flight.

Just days later, I was back at Terminal 3, also flying solo, and travelling light by choice. Nothing to lose, see? Luckily (even if you have to endure the Ryanair punctuality fanfare) both my flights were spot on and drama-free .Travelling by myself has never bothered me--even as a young reporter, jumping on planes and trains to cover stories for my paper. I`m fine driving to and from France; and confident shopping solo in New York. But this was Rome, alone, and Robert de Niro wouldn`t be waiting. Or talking Italian. And neither would I, if I didn`t knuckle down and learn some phrases on my flight.

Following friends`advice,(cheers, Debs and James) I`d armed myself with a Lonely Planet Guide, and a pocket full of change. Landing at Ciampino, I found the right bus, then a metro to the city centre, and legged it to my B and B, stopping for a two euro slice of pizza and an icy coke on the corner. Round one.Sorted. Cheap and easy.

Next: the schedule. As much as I loathe coach trips and organised, escorted tours of any description...I booked some. They`re not that cheap (between 30 and 70 euros for the ones I chose). But there`s so much to see, and I only had three days. No point queuing endlessly in the hot sun or trying to muddle through and miss stuff, I reasoned. And there`d be company if I needed it.

So,within hours of arriving, I was on a night time tour of the city, round all the main, floodlit sights. There was time to jump off and take pictures, with tour buddies happy to snap pics while I posed. (Ok, and the odd sneaky selfie). I realised I wasn`t going to drown in a sea of loved up couples on romantic mini-breaks. I chucked a few euros in the Trevi fountain and scoffed my first gelato. To round off the night: they`d fixed a five course meal for the group. So far, so good. And, thank the Lord, no pensioners with pacamacs. I sat with a  family from Australia, a couple from New Zealand, and a beautiful Brazilian girl `doing Europe`. Great night. But a late one, so I scribbled down my address, and handed it to the driver of my midnight taxi home.

He might just have been the maddest cabbie in town. Or maybe they`re all that Italian-job bonkers. Singing along, badly, to early Beatles ...(.....Hi`ll write Ome...hevery dayeeeee....`)he sped me through the city, zigzagging across lanes as if the steering was shot; leaning, Vespa-like round bends; emergency stopping for dramatic effect with whiplash-ferocity, until, thanking God above, I recognised ,on the final roundabout, my street.

Sadly, he didn`t. So, in the middle of Rome...in four lanes of traffic, with a cartoon like screech of tyres and a touch of `darlin`, hi`ll be truuuuee`... he slammed  into reverse ....AND DROVE BACKWARDS TO THE CORRECT ROUNDABOUT EXIT. There were no words. Even if I`d known any. And no tip.

I stuck to the tube after that. It was just one euro fifty to get to into the centre and find my tour groups.One involved strolling round Rome sampling tiramasu, espresso and gelato. Delicious.Louis and Beatrice from Sao Paulo were on that one. His family produce coffee, for goodness` sake, but he came anyway. Along with Chantal and her friend from Texas. And Jess and Mark from Kansas. Tiny tastes of fabulous food at the best coffee shops. More people to meet; more stories to share. I was loving it.

And then the history bit. Three hours being marched up and down the Palatine Hill, marvelling at monuments...culminating in a tour of the Colosseum. Just mindblowing. And an airconditioned chariot to
speed us home. Sedately.

Somewhere in the mix--I stole an hour or two on the Spanish Steps to watch the world go by, and ambled around the side streets for some gentle souvenir shopping. I also got invited on a little private tour with a fabulous Italian called Daniela, starting on foot and finishing in her little Fiat 500--just because she had a couple of hours to spare and a city she wanted to shout about. But that`s another story.

 So. Lonely? Not once. Fascinated? All the time. Going back soon? You bet.

Help-and plenty of it-in Penny Lane.

`On the corner, there`s a banker with a motorcar. ....`
If you`re strolling down Penny Lane; you`re singing the lyrics. You can`t help it. Especially if you`ve parked up and said hello to Jim. You can`t miss him, because even on a scorching Monday morning, `there...beneath the blue suburban skies....` this school crossing patrol man is resplendent and glowingly warm in orange high-vis.

Jim`s a bit of a character; and, as I later discovered; quite famous in his own right. Even had a mention in the Chicago Tribune once. Nothing was too much trouble. From advising us where to park, and which buildings and street names the Beatles wove into their lyrics; he pretty much made our day.

The trip to Liverpool was Peter`s idea really. He`s Swedish; works for Volvo--and loves the Beatles. Always has. He`s married to Nina, (also Swedish...); a lifelong friend of mine.

So because they were visiting us in Shropshire, Peter wondered if it might be a good chance to whiz to Merseyside, have a tour round the Beatles` Story in Albert Dock, and maybe find some of the places mentioned in the Fab Four`s songs.

We loved the exhibition.Lots of artefacts, and music and audio clips tracing the Beatles` rise to fame from humble beginnings--really well laid out, and a great souvenir shop at the end.

And afterwards, although there are Beatles themed taxi tours round the city, we decided to go it alone.Well, alone with a phone. And on foot. It meant a pretty long hike from Penny Lane up Beech Lane, towards the rather sad looking gateway to Strawberry Fields, and on to Eleanor Rigby`s churchyard. But the people we picked on at random to check on directions were all so helpful. And, seemingly, so proud to be Liverpudlian.

Two people--one a young professional woman, possibly on her way to work; another a guy out shopping, didn`t think twice about saying `come on...I`m going that way, walk with me`. And they walked. And talked. Is this what being Liverpudlian`s all about? Loving where you live? If so, could we all learn a lesson from them?

Those people, along with the barmaid at the Gardener`s Arms where we gulped ice cold coke, to the guy in the coffee shop round the corner in the village of Woolton (sorted our lunch and then found us a taxi to save another five mile hike back to the car ), left our Swedish guests with a fantastic impression of the city, and its people.

Meanwhile back....... hours later.....Jim was still there,asking us how our walk had gone; checking what we`d seen. We had another great chat with him, and thanked him for all his help. And just as Peter`s gleaming black Volvo prepared to purr out of Penny Lane...there was a tap on the window. Jim again.

`I was just going to say....` he mouthed, silently, peaked cap bobbing into the driver`s side as the window slid down so we could hear him...`that if you`ve got the time and you`ve done the Beatles....` (could we ever be done with the Beatles...?).....`there`s a bloody great big ship just come in...`

Legend.

And a brilliant day out. Thanks, Jim. Thanks Liverpool.

http://www.beatlesstory.com

charles murray ‏@Charles__Murray20h

@janemcintyre12. New phone, touchy keyboard, strange blog comment-oops. Loved my proxy trip round Lpool. Thank you.

Karen Jeynes ‏@karenjeynes16h

@janemcintyre12 @Gary_Bainbridge I had such an amazing time when I visited Liverpool. So friendly, so much fun.

Flaming June, Karen Jeynes and Gary Bainbridge retweeted you

16h:

Liverpudlian? Thankyou. http://www.lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk 

Alistair Gordon ‏@AlistairGordon116h

@janemcintyre12 as an exiled scouser in shropshire, can I say thanks back! Nice to get a good review for a change!

Alistair Gordon ‏@AlistairGordon115h

@janemcintyre12 Great blog again by the way & glad you had a good day!

Sharon McGuinness ‏@SharonMcG197114h

RT“@janemcintyre12: Liverpudlian? Thankyou. http://www.lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk ” *beams with reflected pride*

Sharon McGuinness ‏@SharonMcG197113h

@janemcintyre12 So happy you enjoyed my lovely home city! Next time stay the night and do a pub crawl!

Colin Young and Kerry and Laura Doran  retweeted you

16 Jul:

Help--and plenty of it-- in Penny Lane. http://lovemymondays.blogspot.com/2013/07/help-and-plenty-of-it-in-penny-lane.html?spref=tw …

Karen Paterson ‏@PatersonKaren1h

@janemcintyre12 @karenellaB Again - lovely writing xx

The Beatles Story favorited your Tweet

17 Jul:

@beatlesstory thanks for a great visit! http://www.lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk 

Karen Higgins ‏@karenellaB1h

"@janemcintyre12: Help--and plenty of it-- in Penny Lane. http://lovemymondays.blogspot.com/2013/07/help-and-plenty-of-it-in-penny-lane.html?spref=tw …" 》 what a beautiful view of lovely Liverpool

Karen Paterson, Karen Higgins and Martin Evans retweeted you

16 Jul:

Help--and plenty of it-- in Penny Lane. tp://lovemymondays.blogspot.com/2013/07/help-and-plenty-of-it-in-penny-lane.html?spref=tw …

Geoff Rodgers ‏@ge0_ff23m

@janemcintyre12 I didn't comment but I enjoyed it too

Lanyard Ahoy !

It was around 8.15 am today and I was on my four mile morning trek. I`d like to think I could run it..(maybe next week)...but this morning was warm and bright, and I had all the time in the world....so I walked it.

My route takes me just over a mile through a busy, residential feeder road into town (the wrong way), then out into the country for a couple more miles, through a village with a pub and two schools, then out past fields again; up and down a hill on a narrow pathway with scratchy overgrown gorsebushes....and I`m home. Rain, shine or snow....it`s bloody lovely.

And because I`m walking, not running most of the time, I get to say hello to other walkers, runners and cyclists on my route, and peep inside cars in the traffic queues. You see the builders on their way to their day`s work, two or three to a front bench seat; sometimes, steelcapped boots on the dashboard...another idly flicking through the morning paper while the traffic stalls a while.

You clock the solo drivers in shiny, Sunday-washed cars; crisply ironed shirtsleeves resting on windows opened wide enough for you to catch snatches of their illegal mobile chats; and women with smooth, just-straightened hair and neat office gear; sometimes smiling, sometimes snapping at back-seat, school-run squabblers.

Nearly all of them...in their work clothes. And lanyards. You know, the ribbony things round their necks to hold their company ID badges. It`s part of their 9-5 uniform. Their corporate identity. Badges with a little chip which automatic doors and security staff will recognise when the car`s parked and the working day begins.

When you love your job, an ID badge can make you feel so proud; part of the team. I remember that feeling. And I guess when you`re searching for work, you might long to feel you belong somewhere...to be able to slip one of those corporate ribbons round your neck; get some hours clocked up; some cash in the bank.

But today, a year after making the choice to take the money and run, (or sometimes walk, because I can) it was sunny out there. Everyone seemed post-Murray smiley, and smiley`s how I like to be. Looking back, lanyards can start feeling heavy sometimes, and if they do....it`s time to move on before they become millstones round your neck.

Like team briefings; impudently early alarm clocks, terribly important courses; `difficult conversations` behind closed doors, workplace primadonnas... and that aching...that longing for it to be Friday....lanyards....for me....are well and truly in the past.

That realisation made me flash the broadest smile at a bearded bloke (no visible lanyard...) cycling into town today. God knows what he thought.

I`ll see if he smiles back at me tomorrow :)

Happy Monday.

Loyalty: at what price?

How loyal are you to a business--local, national or global--that`s been good to you?

And if you run a company--how much do you reward your customers for sticking with you?

I needed a Sunday morning hair appointment yesterday. And because I`d left it late, the hairdresser`s I`ve supported and raved about for twenty years, couldn`t do it. So I rang around and landed a slot with one on the other side of town. And as I waited outside  for them to open, I realised I was standing in full view of my regular hair stylist`s flat. And do you know--I felt so guilty, I ducked into a shop doorway. Yes, really.

As I left the salon, they asked if I`d like to book again, and presented me with a loyalty card .They were great, but they`re not Brown`s, and that`s where I`ll be returning; because we know each other, and it feels like such a treat to be there.

I realised I have loyalty cards for four independent coffee shops in Shrewsbury, and the one on the A49 near Church Stretton. I`ve got some unused points with American Airlines, and I think I had a Tesco card once. I tell the cashiers at Boot`s that I`ll take my receipts home for my daughters` cards, then I lose them. Oh and I`ve just found one for Waterstone`s.

So. Am I missing out? Does it `pay` to be loyal? And who uses what?

Here`s what a quick straw poll on Twitter yielded this morning:

Sarah and Nita make the most of Boots points--In Nita`s case, `enough for Chanel`.Sarah, also gets 25 per cent off every fifth treatment at her beauty therapist/spa--which she views as a `nice little perk`. Sarah`s the kind of customer Dave Courteen tries to attract at Imagine Spa-they`re now about to launch an app to reward loyalty points via phones.

Dave Wright says he has frequent flyer and hotel chain loyalty cards--`some good, others less so`. But he still uses them for upgrades and weekends away.

Phil says he values,and uses regularly, cards for Tesco and Odeon , but has decided to dump the `faded, creased `ones he`s collected from coffee shops.`And,` he says, `have you done the maths on a Costa card to calculate how much you spend to get a free coffee? I did. It was ludicrous.`

It`s not deterring Shona or Helen, though--both mentioned their Costa cards--though Helen admitted that while they make you feel good, `they don`t equate to much in real terms.`

And then there`s reverse psychology--sort of. Dave Rhodes is in Leeds. He`s seen independent coffee shops there and in London offering a `disloyalty` card--you collect a stamp from each location for a free brew--and ignore the chains.

Love or hate Tesco, my friend Jo swears by their points scheme, and has boasted about the airmiles she`s managed to accrue. Great--but I don`t want to be tied to that, or any other supermarket, really.

And as far as independent coffee shops in Shrewsbury go--we`re completely spoilt for choice. But I`ll always return--free coffee or not-- if I`ve felt welcomed and valued as a customer, if the coffee`s good (and there`s a decent variety of cakes..!)...and if I feel just as comfortable on my own, or meeting friends. And whatever kind of business it is--if it`s new, and it`s trying really hard in a crowded market, I`ll be back, and I`ll spread the word.

PS: Oh..by the way..the other reason I was thinking about `loyalty` was that the number of page views on my blog went past 20,000 today...that`s since I started just over a year ago. I`m really chuffed...so if you`re one of the readers who`s been loyal...or even dropped in more than once....thankyou....Please feel free to leave a comment, or just say hello. I`d love to know where in the world you are, and how you got here! In the meantime....let me stamp your card :)