'Retail therapy' is in no way therapeutic
Okay apologies for the following self-indulgent rant, but ‘tis my blog and therefore I shall self-indulge and rant away to my heart’s content if the desire so takes me. In any case, doing so probably saves small children and other such creatures from being subjected to a great outpouring of vitriolic hate, glowering and muttering, and so the ranting of my rage into blog form is really an act of extreme altruism on my part.
Maybe I'm just missing the requisite gene or something, but I absolutely hate shopping. The only time I have ever enjoyed it is when lacking the necessary resources to do so effectively, at which point I seem to find all manner of fripperies on which to waste/spend my non-existent cash. I also quite enjoyed shopping in night-markets in Taiwan, but that was because you could get a pair of shoes, 3 pairs of jeans, a top, a pet turtle and a meal of stinky tofu and egg fried rice for the equivalent of a tenner or less.
But now, when I actually have money (or rather a credit card with 0%-interest-till-April-2006 just crying out to be abused) and need to buy clothes for starting work, I cannot bring myself to trawl around these temples to consumerism, let alone worship at the shrine of the checkout desk. It doesn’t help that all the clothes in the shops at the moment are weird. Maybe it’s just me getting old, but what’s with the silly little knee-length breeches all over the place at the moment? Worn with tights?! And bizarre cowboy boots? Weren’t pedal pushers bad enough? When I did find something that I liked, it was only ever available in a size 6 or an 18, neither of which looked particularly good. And why can’t Gap ever manage to label its clothes with the correct size? Yes, I know the sizes are American, but even I know that a size 0, either UK or US, should not be baggy on me – or indeed anyone.
In the end, out of sheer desperation and fatigue, I went into M&S and bought multiple pairs of socks and tights, just so I felt that I’d accomplished something. I then fell down the up escalator, and had to buy a ridiculously over-priced bagel to recover. Then the train got stuck just outside Leeds station for ages, which meant I missed my bus from Huddersfield to Denby Dale and had to walk for miles which pissed me off no end.
So this time next week I'll be halfway through my first week at work and will have no clothes to wear, besides some brand spanking new socks. In fact this time next week I'll probably be about ready for retirement, certainly home-time at the very least. Am feeling faintly terrified about the prospect of starting work, which is probably why I am selfishly whinging about clothes, shopping and public transport. It’s all just displacement activity to distract self from sheer terror / worry / blah blah blah.
Shut up Ros.