M&S is the nearest we have to a British Jewish institution that everyone knows

M&S retains that Jewish tradition of thriving under pressure, having recently weathered the storm while the rest of the British high street flounders. Earlier this month the retailer projected profits of £500 million in the next financial year (pre-pandemic profits were at £159m), with clothing and home sales jumping 37.7%. And its share price has also shot up by 52% in six months – and 82% over the past year. Its success has been attributed to CEO Steve Rowe taking the helm five years ago, together with Archie Norman, chairman since 2017.

When you consider the demise of the likes of Topshop and Debenhams, M&S has done well not only to survive but to experience an uptake in the current shaky climate. Moving to Ocado was a shrewd move - although criticised by many when the deal was done - as was its expansion into 'athleisure', not to mention becoming involved in several sustainable initiatives (including a collaboration with clothing rental platform Hire Street).

Last year, they also launched 42 new international websites, allowing customers to order their five different kinds of smoked salmon and 5-pack knickers from far-flung regions like Argentina and Uzbekistan.

Part of me wills M&S to succeed, even though I'm not a shareholder and have zero stake in the business. It’s the one thing I really missed when I lived abroad, together with Lemsip and British sarcasm. (My heart always soars when I glimpse their Simply Food branch after landing at Gatwick.)

My childhood was punctuated by their tinned salmon sandwich and - like all of us - Colin the Caterpillar cake. During sales season, 6-year-old me would spend literally hours forced against my will in the clothing section as the female shopaholics in my family ferociously hunted for bargains, while I played hide-and-seek in the circular rails of floor-length floral skirts.

As a student, I worked in the Brookfield Farm branch just outside the M25, first on the turkey desk during December, then on the refund counter in January (you should have seen the feathers fly on the day they changed their famously lax policy of not needing a receipt!). I eventually worked on the food tills, where a customer once spent £400 on a single shop which, to my student brain, was equivalent to P Diddy levels of swag. Despite having to wear a T-Shirt emblazoned with “Happy to Help You” as part of my uniform, they were a nice company to work for (or at least my branch was). I got a Per Una metallic puffer coat with my staff discount and a trolley’s worth of shopping for around £15 (after my family had all put their orders in).

Even now, I regularly meet family members in the M&S café in London Colney. And before we all go our separate ways, we first wander the rest of the store to "pick up a few bits”. It’s become a weird kind of ritual for my non-religious family. If I’m told M&S has a new sandwich, I will happily hunt it down.

And while I still can't afford to do my weekly shop there, my local branch has a reliable range of Jewish food, which is handy when I'm feeling low and need to stock up on rollmop herrings. I’m sure I’m over-romanticising, but M&S is my history in a weird way, and I’m glad this long-standing British-Jewish institution is still here.

Editor's note: This piece has been altered to reflect the fact that Percy Pig does not, as it once did, contain pork gelatin.