Let us all rise to acclaim the local shop, the little independent establishment that always seems to have exactly what you went in for. These places are not many in number, so we must be sure to celebrate those that remain with us. Their prices might – might – be a little higher than a bloated multiple owned by some faceless private equity operation, but surely, if this is the case, it is a price worth paying.

I find most shopping rather like watching my football team – a reliable source of disappointment. It’s not that I’m a particularly exacting customer. All I ask is for someone to serve me; ideally someone who doesn’t appear unhappy about taking my money off me. If they’re actively cheerful, helpful or knowledgable, so much the better. It’s not much to ask, is it? When I tell you what I’m looking for, please don’t look at me like an idiot for asking. In a health food shop the other day, I enquired as to the whereabouts of the nut roasts and she looked at me as if I’d asked for moonrock.

I often feel unwelcome before I’ve even troubled anyone for help. It may be that I’m damaged from an unhappy experience I had in an Armani shop in Knightsbridge 20 years ago. Not my kind of establishment, but I needed some trousers – and when you need trousers, you need trousers. When I mentioned this to the meeter-and-greeter, she told me: “We don’t really do large sizes.” I grunted and shambled out, broken.

Just give me someone, anyone, who wants to help me spend my cash. I find that the bigger the shop, the smaller my chance of finding that person. A couple of honourable exceptions here. You can usually find someone in John Lewis who doesn’t treat you with contempt. And the staff in Rymans are something else. I’ve got piles of paper, pens and document wallets I only really bought out of my love for the people there.

Otherwise, little is best. The local chemist I use, for example, where the pharmacist knows more about my maladies and blemishes than any GP who has been cursed to deal with me. Little bookshops get a lot of love, and rightly so. Less celebrated are local sport shops, covering a miraculous range of activities, the air in them permanently heady with the excitement of generations of schoolkids getting their first shoes, balls, bats, rackets, shorts, tops and tracksuits.

You see ever fewer of these places around. In fact, I can only think of one. It’s in the village where I grew up, Hagley, on the edge of the Black Country. I was there last month and was delighted to see that the shop is still in business. I pressed my nose against the glass as if I was 50 years younger. It was closed for the day, otherwise I’d have gone in and stood there, watery-eyed, just breathing the air, possibly to the exasperation and disquiet of the owner. I’d have bought a squash ball or something – even though I don’t play squash – just to own something from that place. Actually, the rubber of the squash ball will perish in time, so I’ll go for a cricket ball instead, and lovingly shine one side of it at times of stress.

Encouragingly, there is a variety of just-around-the-corner shop apparently immune to the ravages of time and trends. While most of the shopping I do consists of shop staff telling me, without noticeable regret, that they haven’t got what I’m looking for, hardware shops are different. They always seem to be able to help. This might be why most of the ones I’ve used in my time are still going strong.

These places are incredible. If you ever go to one of the big, warehouse-style DIY chains and wonder why you so rarely find anyone willing and able to advise you, it might well be because the kind of people you want are all to be found working in the tiny place much nearer to where you live.

I plain don’t know how the people who run these shops pull it off. Whatever random bit or bob you’re after, they’ll: a) tell you exactly what bit or bob you actually need; b) have it in stock; c) be able to find it; and d) tell you what do with it. If I were to be at the helm of such a place, all four of these things would be beyond me. How on earth do they go about their purchasing? The range of stuff, the sheer number of items, is staggering.

I frequent a great example of such a shop in the Sketty area of Swansea. I reckon that if, on a slow day, the lovely chap in there decided to count everything on the premises, every single bit and bob, big and small, he’d be well into five, possibly even six figures. Arrange all his stock in a line and it would run halfway to Bridgend.

Just when I couldn’t get any more impressed with him and his wares, last Saturday he outdid himself. Upon arrival I couldn’t help but notice there were thick black clouds of smoke curling up out of the roof of the dilapidated old building behind his shop. Actual flames were in evidence, too. Our conversation went like this:

“Did you know the building behind is on fire?”

“Yeah, I think someone was burning weeds.”

“Is anyone calling the fire brigade?”

“Think someone has, yes.”

“Good. Er, I’m after some hosepipe connectors.”

“Certainly. Let’s have a look.”

The fire engine turned up, and as the firefighters ran around unfurling their hoses my man talked me through his extensive range of hose connectors. Two minutes later, with the fire getting a good dousing, I was walking out of the shop with exactly what I was after and a hosta plant I wasn’t, but to which I had taken a shine. And all was well with the world.

Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist