The BHV

The Bazar de l'Hotel de Ville is a living, breathing entity. It is not simply a department store, lovingly known to all Parisians as simply the BHV, key commercial landmark of the right bank. It reaches out with its tentacles and tries to pull you in. The small stalls and kiosks on the ground floor level fight to clasp you firmly in their grip. Scarves, belts, watches, ties - come and buy them! Need a key cut or a heel repaired? No problem. You don't even have to set foot inside the actual store, but if you want to, why not? There's plenty to see. Let the BHV draw you into its warm, womb-like retail space and give you a big hug. The BHV will make it all better.

Once it swallowed me whole. I made the mistake of following the crowd at the Hotel de Ville mÈtro station on a Saturday afternoon. The confines of the Line 1 platform didn't leave much room for manoeuvre and the general flow of people swept me along as part of a huge, bustling mass into the BHV basement. Tightly packed shelves rose from floor to ceiling, creating a labyrinth through which shoppers scurried with the purposefulness of hoarding rodents. Every available space was filled with stock, hooks on every surface festooned with bags of nails, screws and other essentials of everyday care and repair for the home. I had heard whispered tales about this place, but now I was actually there, in the inner sanctum of cement bags and reels of chains to be sold by the metre. This was the mythic BHV DIY department.

Down in the bowels of the smart and rather fashionable department store, the temple of home improvement might seem a little incongruous. Up above you can buy Dior perfume and Armani slacks, down there you can have a piece of MDF cut to size - only in Paris! Home improvement in the city, you see, requires a little imagination. It is not uncommon to see furniture, industrial sized tins of paint and even bricks being lugged around by tired but determined individuals, keen to make their small but perfectly formed apartments feel like home. Tapping into these desires is part of the BHV's plan for domination. Thus there are staff aplenty down in basement, as in the old hardware stores that are now so hard to find back in England. They help customers to shop and fulfil all of their desires, carefully wrapping goods that are probably not going to be taken home swiftly in the boot of a car. The curtain poles are going to be heading out into the city traffic balanced precariously between shoulder and bicycle frame, the plank of wood will be clasped between knees riding a moped and the box of tiles will be strapped to a handcart.

The BHV has a powerful brain. It knows Parisians. The nature of the city is such that it is a crowded place, filled to the brim with millions of souls seeking different kinds of satisfaction. Bearing this in mind, the BHV has decided to stock everything that anybody could ever possibly want. If you can dream it, the chances are that it will be there. I managed to escape the basement eventually, but on another occasion I got drawn into the Papeterie, with its shelves filled with notebooks, pens, greetings cards and such. An innocent, aimless wander through here brings you into the arts and crafts section, complete with a smock-wearing mannequin doing a credible impression of a tortured artist. I resisted temptation, but departed with the feeling that I needed a two metres square canvas, brushes, paints and of course an easel, not to mention a lampshade making kit and a large papier mache letter "X".

Beyond the main body of the BHV there are parasitic annexes dedicated to particular social groups and enthusiasms. In the imposing "BHV Homme" store, men are comprehensively catered for. Every type of hat and hoodie, brief and boxer, tie and cravat can be tried on, touched and caressed before being neatly folded into a carrier bag for purchase. There is another shop for pet accessories and even a bike emporium, which proudly displays the latest in electric bicycle technology in the window. Presumably the BHV shopper should not even have to pedal. Even that inconvenient need can be taken care of by the all loving, all giving, benevolent department store.

The BHV thrusts itself out from behind the City Hall, proud to be the saviour of the busy consumer. As the traffic creeps its way past, horns honking, mopeds darting in and out, laden bikes weaving, all of Paris is going there to buy, to browse, to get things done. It's not just a purveyor of middle class ambition, like John Lewis, or of accessible branded fashion, like Debenhams. It is a soother, a counsellor, a magician in a theatre of dreams performing for all who can afford to buy its wares as their ticket, but it is rooted in everyday life too. Its heart beats for that particular kind of everyday life that is creative, hurried and yet philosophical - that particular kind of everyday life that is concentrated, manic, occasionally very extravagant and always unique. In other words that particular kind of everyday life that is Parisian.