Going to the Shops

My husband declares that shopping is my life-blood. ‘You love it!’ he insists. I protest that it is something that has to be done. Wouldn’t I prefer to stay at home and watch the football or do the ironing? But no I sacrifice myself because there are things that are needed and hence I need to ‘go shopping’ When I’m out friends are told, ‘Oh, she’s shopping!’

‘What! Again!’ is the usual reply. But they just don’t understand. ‘Shopping’ is going to Sainsbury’s to buy life’s staples, toilet paper, baked beans, plastic chicken, reconstituted dinosaur, fruit and vegetables of unknown origin or nature. Boring and often ugly products that are needed to keep body and soul together but have not an iota of excitement about them. We all need our top up of E numbers now that we have become addicted to them. I stock up with convenience foods; the pictures on the boxes look delicious. If one could but eat the box!

When I go to the shops, as opposed to shopping, that is an entirely different matter, it is an experience. If I took drugs, which I don’t, I imagine it would be a similar feeling. A feeling of well being, senses heightened by the presence of wonderful, but unneeded material objects. A satisfying, pleasurable interlude.

Once through the glass and stainless steel portals of a big department store I am transported to another world. I am engulfed by the exotic smells of the cosmetics and perfumery department; each assistant beautifully representing the products they are trying to sell. But could I ever look like that – or would I want to? I am sprayed from head to toe with expensive fragrances and asked would I like a complimentary make up. I am obviously in great need of one. Then onto the escalator and up to the glorified heights where the joys of the ladies clothing department are to be found. Designer labels vie with each other for my attention. A Kensace jacket jostles with a Guccani shrug to try to make me buy it. I finger the fabrics, hold them against me, and smile at the mirror and the lady who asks can she help. The image would be destroyed if I tried them on; clothes are designed for beautiful beanpoles not for those of a more ‘normal’ shape and size. Now how about underwear. Silk, stitched and embellished by hands in a faraway and exotic country. Labels declare them to be luxury fabrics and they must be laundered with extreme care, any damage is not the responsibility of the manufacturer or the vendor.

 Next onto home furnishings and what a lovely sofa. ‘Madam that is superb quality and comes in a range of colours. It can be bought on finance with nothing to pay until 2025!’ I luxuriate in its depths, caress its plushness but then I smile and drift on. Minimalist works of art adorn the walls. A black canvas with a single white dot and the enigmatic title ‘Life’. Reasonably priced at five hundred pounds, especially when it is bound to increase in value. Oriental carpets, each one made by hand. Its originator having received a fraction of its selling price.

 Just time for a cup of coffee. Now which coffee shop shall I choose today, the one with deep leather armchairs, the one with stainless steel everything, no I think it will be The Shangri La where everything is organic and made and served to perfection.

I have had my ‘shopping’ fix and now it’s time to go home. On the way I must do some real shopping. I’ll give Tesco’s a whirl. I’ve heard they have a very good deal on Chinese rose wine.