I need to listen to my own advice. But I didnāt, and I went to the shops and it was fecking awful. I know, I know. Ā Iām all about my forays to charity shops; about experiences instead of material goods, and home-made truffles instead of a box of Miniature Heroes, but Iām also a realist. Sometimes, you have to buy knickers and socks and a new laundry basket from TK Maxx because your children have made a sleigh of your old one, by attaching a dressing-gown belt to the handle and tugging their sibling and a multitude of stuffed animals about. Said laundry basket is now buggered and a jagged edge threatens to take the hand off you every time you look at it.
Anyhoo, the Mothership, and I hoofed it to Bloomfield Shopping Centre, which bears little resemblance from how I remember it in the nineties. The M&S was so big and cavernous that we found ourselves wandering around gormlessly like Father Ted when he got trapped in the lingerie section. It was like a maze, particularly since the aisles were blocked by folk with trollies full of food. Ā A law should be passed, stating firmly that trollies donāt belong, EVER, in the clothes section, because the aisles are too narrow to accommodate them and consequently all movement is reduced to a standstill. Very irksome, when all you want is to grab your size 12 full briefs and find the nearest exit.
But it was Next which committed the greatest faux-pas, by cranking up the in-store muzak to āwreck the nerves entirelyā level. Dropping the latest beats from DJ āDeck-the-Halls-and-Rob-da-Manger,ā it created a frenetic atmosphere with a beat so pounding and intrusive it rendered any considered shopping an impossibility. I lost all ability to make a decision, and before I knew it Iād sought out a shop assistant. āExcuse me,ā I said, ābut would you mind finding your manager, and making the case that this is a shop, not a night club, and that I canāt concentrate with that din?ā Her smile faded, but she diligently trotted off. But the music wasnāt turned down, or at least not in the three minutes I lasted before seeking sanctuary outside. The west wind blasted a wet drizzle into our faces but it was still better than the alternative. āThat was horrible,ā I said to the Mothership, who agreed that indeed it was.
Later I told LSB the craic. āThe thing is,ā he said, as he tucked into a Tunnock, āthey donāt really want you there. Youāre not the right demographic.’
āWhat the actual f**k?ā sez I. āNot the right demographic? Iām their ONLY demographic!ā Always quick with a retort, he piped up, āTheir perceived demographic. They make the mistake of thinking theyāre trendy.ā
Heās right, isnāt he, auld LSB. Who else do you think shops in Next only women in their forties, picking up bland office wear or choosing stuff for their kids or the ubiquitous baby gift?ā
I was chatting with my friend over brunch earlier, and asked if she felt the same about shopping these days. ‘Of course I do! she replied. Her pet-peeve is stores with lighting so subdued that you have to employ the torch on your phone for a better look. Once she had to explain to a store detective at Hollister that she wasnāt stealing a denim jacket, she just wanted to see it in the daylight, to see whether it was black or navy. Turned out it was dark green.
So is shopping just for the youngāuns? Is internet shopping the future and does it herald the end of the high street and a as a result a trip out with your mum ? I don’t know. All I know is that my wee wrecked head can’t deal with the reality of actual forays these days.
