Today, through no fault of my own I was forced, not coerced, no, forced to partake in what is probably my worst activity I could imagine. There are I think a number of reasons why I detest shopping generally and clothes shopping specifically. I can't decide whether its the spending of the money that gets to me most - it may well be this, the endless choice of style that I don't really give a shit about, me being more interested in what I like and as you know I am not really known for my keen and up to date fashion sense.
Or could it be that my senses are so overwhelmed with the desire to impulse purchase that writing a list of what to buy just wouldn't work. Writing a list is my all time classic excuse to get out of prolonged spells shopping. My stock answer is always, 'if its not on the list it doesn't get bought'. This instant bad mood setter for my significantly other half - and there has been many a fight over this logical reason for having a list in the first place - is a sure winner for me as she tends to storm off to do the shopping when the list is mentioned. You should try it. But take it from me, the list excuse works for quite a while and it works pretty well too but eventually your other half expects you to be able to read her mind. And woe betide you if you can't. I mean really what is wrong with you. Don't you love me anymore?
But then there are guys who actually enjoy shopping and their idea of a pleasant afternoon, when other perhaps more normal guys are watching rugby and drinking beer, is window shopping the latest style and fashion or even worse, grocery shopping. Oh my God, were you never taught gender segregation by your parents. Did they never force this shopping thing down your throat as a kid enough times so that you were forever scarred by the mere thought of it.
And to only cap off my days activity I did this with whiners attached - they had to be as their were bits of the school uniform that still had to be bought and in fairness as the seasons are starting to change they needed localised clothing. I don't think they understand just what is coming their way in terms of weather. The oldest thinks that a summer long sleeve sweater will do her for the winter too. It won't. No, this first winter will leave her with chipped teeth and cold blood. But she will learn that warmth beats looking cool any day of the winter week. The naivety of youth. The youngest is still young enough to still not give a shit either way, and of course he is a bloke so double whammy if its in his cupboard he'll wear it, if not, oh well this T shirt will do, much to his mothers maternal anxiety.
So off it was to Primark, if you're in the UK you might know this place, OK its not exactly Saville Row but hey its damn cheap and reasonable quality, and the place you can shop for kids that will need a new wardrobe next week at the rate they are growing. For Saffers, it a bit like an upmarket version of Mr Price, seems to be better quality than the Chinese rubbish they put on their shelves (although the stuff probably does come from China anyway) and its not as garish I suppose. But then the market is different here also. And my eleven going on eighteen year old had found her piece of heaven. Her prayers had been answered. She had in one stroke arrived. And for two tiresome hours every piece of clothing in this massive store was tried on, accepted or rejected. Being who I am I had completed my shopping in the first fifteen minutes so alone I stood, occasionally interrupted by the over excited breathless one who had found her next fashion statement. Oh joy it was spending next years salary. Shopping. Does anyone actually enjoy it?
In tomorrows installment of this riveting account of a year in my life I shall enthrall you with my observations of Pickfords arriving with our stuff from SA. It should be a busy day indeed!
Until tomorrow...
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