I went shopping last week. I bought some new shoes. They are very pretty shoes and I fell in love with them the moment I got a chance to hold them in my arms. I looked deep into their shiny patent leather and caught a glimpse of my reflected self: I knew at that moment I had to make them my own.
I invited them into my home, gave them their box their own little corner in my room and introduced them to friends. I thought we were going to be so happy together, happy forever – just like in the movies, right? Turns out my Carrie Bradshaw Manolo Blanhik, happy ending fantasies have turned more Rosa Klebb – and I’m Bond constantly dodging the poisoned blades hidden in the toes. It’s exhausting to say the least; painful at best, crippling at their very worst. I can’t believe I’ve fallen victim to such terror, I’m so ashamed. I should return them to the shop, refuse to take them out with me again, but that would be admitting failure. I’m sure they don’t mean to hurt, it’s probably my own fault…yes…my big clumping size 6s, what was I thinking blaming the brogues!? I’ll just have to continue wearing them until they sand my heels and toes down to a socially acceptable size.
The shoe shopping venture was rather worrying in itself; I’m not much of a shopper, I have to admit. I prefer engaging in activities where I don’t have to interact with other human beings or part with money, so shopping as an activity rarely falls top of my list. It’s been a while since I’ve ventured into the city centre with a purchase on my mind, but venture I did and I was disturbed by what I met. In the shoe store, after I’d found my sadistic slip-ons, I handed my choice over to a helpful young woman of about 14 who seemed to undertake some military routine to find me my size. She first made some quick gesture to the other side of the room, obviously a secret shop employee signal to which an equally baby-faced worker came running. He quickly took note of the style and size I was after and turned to his walkie-talkie to relate this information to the secret shoe-base. After what I felt was an acceptable amount of time spent twiddling my thumbs – about three minutes I’d say – the baby-faced one returned and apologised ‘for the wait’. “S’alright”, I replied, whilst I tried to ram my hammy little stumps into the delicate little brogues. I realised that Mr Baby-Face was still staring at me at this point. After a while his strained smile started to perturb me, until he spoke; “What are the shoes for, anything special?” Uh…no. Just…wearing…” I replied, uncertain whether I’d passed the shoe test. “What are you up to today?” He continued in a nasal drawl whilst I fumbled around with the laces “Well…shopping…”, again dismayed at my below average answer. It reminded me of being at the hairdressers, an activity where I feel it’s acceptable to make up the most henious lies in order to stem the flow of shit conversation. Unfortunately I’d been unprepared for such an interrogation and could only verbally stumble around like a newly-born conversational giraffe.
It reminded me of my own experience in retail where handbooks and pamphlets would advise the workers on how best to approach customers and strike up conversation with them. There was the ‘180 degrees’ method where you’d see someone come into the shop, take an item of clothing ‘over’ to the place they were standing, fix a rail or smooth down a sleeve and smile at them, begin to walk away, but when you’d reached exactly 2.5 feet away from where you were initially standing at the rail, whip yourself ’round 180 degrees and make some comment about the weather, their outfit or your own vapid outlook on life (they asked you to think up your own ice-breakers) and wait for their makeshift response. It was ridiculous. Ever since I got fired from that job (upon refusal to get a fake tan – I claim they are prejudiced against the un-tango’d) I swore I’d never fall for such sales tactics. Unfortunately I bought the shoes for their own merit and in the meantime forgot to berate the staff for trying to lead me down a this conversational route of feined friendliness. I’ve failed myself and the rest of the shoe-shopping world who’ll have to put up with this shit from head to toe. Sorry ’bout that.
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March 15, 2009 at 1:02 am
http://www.wikimapia.org/#lat=55.8587736&lon=-4.2550027&z=17&l=0&m=a&v=2
Check the staff entrances.