It’s beyond my understanding why people go shopping. Each foray into these bastions of consumerism result in the poor shopper being harangued and abused, only to come home with everything except the things we wanted originally.
When it came to shopping, my father-in-law talked about his ‘invisible days’ - where everyone barged into him.
I don’t think it’s that simple. It seems we’ve become a nation of ‘shopper hooligans’, determined to grab a bargain, regardless of who we step on.
Yesterday I went shopping. As I reached the exit to a large store, a young woman with two screaming toddlers grabbed the door handle and blustered into the shop. Instantly, I knew there would be trouble.
Young Rio and Apollo had the sole purpose of swearing as loudly as possible and demanding their mother buy them another donut. This had the effect of forcing every shopper to fall into one of three camps – those pretending to not hear one child accuse the other of being fatherless; a second that formed a line of heavily scented assistants, who looked on contemptuously; and a final group that stared at the harassed mother with intense pity. Meanwhile, Apollo was kicking every shin in sight, while Rio squirreled chocolates into his backpack quicker than a dog can lick a dish.
Let's face it – people with manners have become social outcasts - doff your hat, open a door, or say 'excuse me' and you'll be accused of being a backward old fossil. A throwback to the days of gaslight and cobbled streets – a time when children were prodded up chimneys (a pursuit, in the cases of Rio and Apollo, offering numerous attractions).
As for shopping – it’s become a nightmare. Who was the bright spark that said we needed “malls”? Enter one of these amorphous arcades and you become the target of ebullient salespeople determined to sell you dental insurance. Haven’t they realised at our age we treat our teeth like our cars? We leave them in the repair shop in the morning and pick them up in the afternoon.
Last Saturday I skirted the edges of the mall in a vain effort to avoid the ‘Teeth Squad’. No matter how I tried, nothing saved me from crews promoting satellite TV, mobile phones, and blocks of soap shaped like a mushroom. But there was worse around the corner - ‘Dr Death’ - the man wanting me to write my will. ‘Go away!’ I screamed, leaving him glowering as I ran away.
Shouting in a mall was a bad idea. As soon as I did, a blazered steroid-filled neanderthal approached me. He was, of course, a customer liaison officer (once known as a security guard). Before I could escape, ‘Sven the Barbarian’ was ushering me to the exit.
“Come on, granddad – let’s not have any fuss.”
Fuss? I wanted to impale ‘Dr Death’ on a rusty park railing. Fortunately, I convinced Sven I wasn’t the leader of the local chapter of the Grey Panthers, and he cautiously released me
My nerves were shredded, my body ached and my throat felt like a 3000-year old raisin, so I decided to have a drink.
"Cup of coffee please," I asked innocently.
The assistant had a stud in each nostril and a large tattoo on his wobbling bicep - a huge skull with the word ‘POISON’ emblazoned underneath. "Americano, cappuccino, espresso, ristretto, or mocha?"
I looked back, confident he wasn’t from this planet, but all was not lost – I was older, wiser, and knew how to retain my dignity.
"Just ordinary white coffee!"
He gave the kind of smile the young save for when they feel sorry for us. "Whole milk, semi-skimmed, skimmed, fat free or soya?"
"Change that, I’ll have a pot of tea."
The boy didn’t flinch. "Earl Grey, Darjeeling, peppermint, camomile, fruit or iced?"
There are times you know when to give up – I ran for my life.
These aren’t shopping centres; they are mausoleums awash with hideous piped music. But it’s OK, because they aren’t shops any more - they are ‘retail outlets’. Dare to ask for help from one of the assistants inside and you’ll be greeted with the standard response.
"Ooh ... we don’t have a lot of call for that around here."
I needed to save my sanity, there was only one solution – I had to get home. So I made my way through the crowds onto the High Street. Here I had to face the worst kind of menace - the seasoned shopper.
These are creatures that go shopping fully armed. The foot soldiers, or to give them their proper name - storetroopers, and they are determined to cause you pain. A well-positioned umbrella, a carefully placed bag, even strategic use of an elbow or high-heel - they all have their place. But they aren’t the worst. The greater danger comes from the mechanised cavalry - the buggy brigade.
When I saw a man under thirty-five pushing a pram, I wasn’t fooled. He wasn’t a parent, he was a killer and he wanted to hurt me. I wasn’t deceived by the little cherub in the buggy either. Little ‘squashy-kins’ and his father worked like a tag-team wrestling duo from Hell, weaving through the crowd, wreaking havoc on unsuspecting shoppers and leaving behind them a trail of blood and chaos. Only a few saw the danger and followed my lead and ran for cover.
Finally, I made it to the car park. I was lucky this time - it wasn’t stolen. I found it, complete with parking ticket written by an epauletted jobsworth (who smiled malevolently as I put it in my pocket). By the time I arrived home and walked into my kitchen I was exhausted.
"Hello love. Enjoy shopping?" asked my wife cheerily.
"Hardly."
"Get anything nice?"
"Yes," I replied through clenched teeth. "Four bruises, a cracked rib, a parking ticket, satellite TV, membership of a sports club, an appointment to write my will and soap shaped like a mushroom."
It seems that most people don't seem to realise that the above is supposed to be humorous. An earlier version in my local paper four months ago was better.
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