Near my nest in Shepherd’s Bush is a gigantic shopping centre called Westfield.
Until recently, I was accustomed, like the other middle-class people in my neighbourhood, to criticising Westfield as a hideous, sterile, overheated monument to crass consumerism.
After all, most of it is indoors and the 320 shops within its cavernous interior are all chains: Armani, Boss, W H Smith, Sports Direct and so on.
It’s an outpost of the Brave New World: an airport without the planes, right on my doorstep, with advertising screens and a multi-screen cinema to keep you entertained after shopping.
And where is the field of its name? Like many of these modern developments, it’s named after the very thing it destroyed. Where there were fields, there is now concrete and a giant car park.
What a far cry from the cosy, tumbledown 18th-century Devon farmhouse I used to live in, with its chickens, apple trees and roses round the front door.
Still, Westfield has one major attraction for me – a Waitrose. This is the only grocer anywhere near me that has a decent range of real ales.
So I visit frequently. And every time I do, I go up the escalator, past the Astroturfed picnic area, through the uncovered walkway, past the chain restaurants – Wahaca, the Real Greek, Gourmet Burger Kitchen, Rudy’s Pizza, Bill’s and Spaghetti House. I walk past the fountains with their statue of Paddington, past the smoking area and the giant advertising screen.
The walk used to make me angry. Westfield is always busy. Why can’t all these people patronise small, family-run, independent shops and cafés? Why do they allow themselves to be seduced by these bland retail outlets with their billionaire owners?
But, as time has gone on, I’ve learned to love these strolls. What you see is a bit like life in an Italian city state. There are no cars, and the streets are clean. Young couples court by the fountain. Oldies walk slowly with their families.
It’s a passeggiata, no less. Visitors swarm in from out of town, to be uplifted by its splendours, like Italian country folk arriving in Florence in 1436 to see the Duomo.
And the people are from every background and country imaginable. It is a very diverse group, to use the modern lingo. They’re dressed smartly and the women and girls wear expertly applied make-up.
Clearly, a trip to Westfield is not merely a question of utility. It’s a pleasure. It’s a bazaar, a place to meet, chat, eat and hang out.
For young people who can’t go to the pub, or are not allowed to go the pub, Westfield offers a democratic space open to everyone.
It’s also the largest shopping centre in Europe, thanks to a 700,000-foot extension completed in 2018. It now covers a mind-blowing 2.6 million square feet.
Multiplex, an Australian company, built it in 2008 on the site of the 1908 Franco-British Exhibition, celebrating the 1904 Entente Cordiale between Britain and France.
Opening in the year of a financial crisis was dangerous. But, even at the time, Mary Portas, who advised on the launch, was upbeat. And Westfield contributed £170m to redeveloping Shepherd’s Bush Tube Station and opening a new Hammersmith and City Line stop.
And, speaking very selfishly, I’m also grateful to Westfield because the price of my nest has increased since its arrival. As has footfall down the Uxbridge Road.
Our local MP, Andy Slaughter, was somewhat negative about Westfield in 2008. He said, ‘They’re not pitching it at many local people. They’re going for people coming in from Kensington
and Westminster, or people driving in from Berkshire and Buckinghamshire along the M40. Can a relatively small local centre like Shepherd’s Bush cope with this?’
Well, we’ve coped with it very well. The grumblers like me should shut up.
Tom Hodgkinson is editor of the Idler
