Like a Velvet Glove...
In Belfast, on a Sunday, the shops don't open until one in the afternoon. There are many idiosyncrasies to the Belfast shopping experience, the customer service for one, but most of them centre on religious queasiness: the door bells on the off licences, the alcoholic shame booths in the supermarkets - drinks live in a separate area of the shop behind a saloon door, and there are tills in the supermarkets - even self-service ones - where you're not allowed to buy booze. When I first moved here, the local M&S didn't have a license to sell intoxicants but still had to join in the national meal deals, meaning where the rest of the UK got a main, a pudding and a bottle of wine included in their special offer, Northern Irish diners had to settle for a bottle of Shloer. I'd never even heard of Shloer before I came here and, ironically, it does sound like the sort of thing you'd order when you're pissed. In the city centre, the off-licences close at 5.30 or 6. Out...
