I couldn't help laughing when I read this article recently, which stated that a Tesco's grocery store in Cardiff had banned all shoppers from wearing slippers and pyjamas whilst shopping.
According to the BBC, one of the pyjama-clad shoppers responded:
She said she had been "popping in for a pack of fags," but if she had been doing a full shop "then we obviously would have gone in clothed".
"But we only wanted fags and they still refused us to go in for a pack of cigarettes," she added.
The article made me remember my step-daughter's assertion that shopping in central Liverpool with curlers in your hair (in preparation for a big night out, naturally) was becoming a fashion, along with fuzzy slippers and pyjama bottoms. I have to admit I was slightly doubtful at the time... but not anymore!
Showing posts with label shopping. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shopping. Show all posts
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Summer Sales... Already!?
Yesterday, while tooling around on High Street Kensington, my eyes were drawn to a large sign in Warehouse proudly proclaiming clothes for under £20! Under £15! And -- surely not -- under £10! Yes, the season of summer sales is upon us, even though we've yet to truly experience summer-like weather.
Not that I'm complaining. My meager budget barely allows me the extravagances of Primark, let alone the high street. Still, every summer I seem to end up buying things I don't need and, in retrospect, I don't even like. A moth to a flame, I was drawn inside the store, my eyes glazing over as I took in the row after row of bargains. I plucked two dresses from their hangers and plodded my way over to the fitting rooms, my legs moving as if of their own accord.
Pivoting in front of the mirror, one refrain managed to push itself through the consumerism-induced fog of my brain: Do I need this? I tore the dress off as if it was poisoned, hung it up and shoved it at the sales assistant. I would not be tempted; I would not buy yet another useless item I couldn't afford.
Out on the sidewalk, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had escaped, unscathed. Just another two months of summer sales to go!
Not that I'm complaining. My meager budget barely allows me the extravagances of Primark, let alone the high street. Still, every summer I seem to end up buying things I don't need and, in retrospect, I don't even like. A moth to a flame, I was drawn inside the store, my eyes glazing over as I took in the row after row of bargains. I plucked two dresses from their hangers and plodded my way over to the fitting rooms, my legs moving as if of their own accord.
Pivoting in front of the mirror, one refrain managed to push itself through the consumerism-induced fog of my brain: Do I need this? I tore the dress off as if it was poisoned, hung it up and shoved it at the sales assistant. I would not be tempted; I would not buy yet another useless item I couldn't afford.
Out on the sidewalk, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had escaped, unscathed. Just another two months of summer sales to go!
Monday, May 18, 2009
Oxford Street Slalom
Today was unusual. Not only did I leave my flat (yes, there are days I don't go into the outside world), but I actually -- voluntarily -- went to Oxford Street, the Queen of the Consumerism. I had an errand to run just off of the dreaded stretch. Heavy-hearted, I took the Tube and alighted at the centre of commercialism itself: Oxford Circus. Quick as a flash, I darted across the busy road and onto Great Portland Street, leaving the retching buses behind me.
Errand finished, I was determined to make my way back to the flat as fast as I could. I picked up the pace, negotiating the traffic, eyes focused on the roundrel lighting my way home. Oh -- what's that? Miss Selfridges? I'll just duck inside. Ooh, TopShop! The bright colours were a siren song temporarily blinding me. Zombie like, I trailed through the racks of clothing, my hands drawn out to touch the soft shiny fabric.
No. I must be strong. Back up the escalator and out onto the street, I dodge the demons of commercialism: shoppers clutching their treasures, possessed by their possessions. They fix me with their eyes, hitting me with their bags as they pass by in an effort to make me succumb.
I duck, I dodge. I try to cross to the Tube entrance, to take cover within the musty-smelling cavity, but my way is blocked by the side of a bus proudly displaying a Mango advert. I avert my eyes, push through the stand-still cars, and breathe in relief as I run down the gritty stairs to the Tube.
Errand finished, I was determined to make my way back to the flat as fast as I could. I picked up the pace, negotiating the traffic, eyes focused on the roundrel lighting my way home. Oh -- what's that? Miss Selfridges? I'll just duck inside. Ooh, TopShop! The bright colours were a siren song temporarily blinding me. Zombie like, I trailed through the racks of clothing, my hands drawn out to touch the soft shiny fabric.
No. I must be strong. Back up the escalator and out onto the street, I dodge the demons of commercialism: shoppers clutching their treasures, possessed by their possessions. They fix me with their eyes, hitting me with their bags as they pass by in an effort to make me succumb.
I duck, I dodge. I try to cross to the Tube entrance, to take cover within the musty-smelling cavity, but my way is blocked by the side of a bus proudly displaying a Mango advert. I avert my eyes, push through the stand-still cars, and breathe in relief as I run down the gritty stairs to the Tube.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Into the Wilds... of Primark
My at-home uniform of jeans from the 1990s, tattered track bottoms and faded jumpers was sorely in need of a revamp before it all fell to pieces. Since I'm not exactly pulling in big money (rather, I'm making no money) I had to limit my extravagance to the cheapest clothing retailer in UK existence: Primark.
You need to steel yourself for shopping at Oxford Street Primark. It's two floors of bargain-hunting madness, with women going crazy over £3 shoes and £2 jumpers. Sometimes, you can barely push through the aisles. Forget about trying anything on unless you want to wait for at least thirty minutes. And the one cardinal rule to abide by: Never, ever, go on the weekend.
Even this morning -- a rainy, cold Thursday -- the place was jammed. Sales assistants were frantically trying to tidy rails of clothing, a futile pursuit as the racks were only torn apart a minute later by the next wave of shoppers. I rammed my headphones in a little bit further, turned up my music in an effort to disassociate myself from the chaos, and plunged in.
Thirty minutes later (my limit for Primark), I emerged relatively unscathed and £30 lighter. The most expensive item I bought was a pair of indigo jeans for £7. I also managed to pick up a polo-neck jumper for £1, along with tons of black socks and various other comfy, warm items (my only real criteria for at-home wear).
Surprisingly, most of the items I've bought at Primark actually last. One of my favourite pair of jeans is from almost a year go, and still going strong! And all of the my Primark t-shirts still have their seams intact.
It's not glamorous by any stretch of the imagination, but if you can stomach the Primark-madness the low prices seem to induce, it's worth it -- if you can't afford anything more, anyway.
You need to steel yourself for shopping at Oxford Street Primark. It's two floors of bargain-hunting madness, with women going crazy over £3 shoes and £2 jumpers. Sometimes, you can barely push through the aisles. Forget about trying anything on unless you want to wait for at least thirty minutes. And the one cardinal rule to abide by: Never, ever, go on the weekend.
Even this morning -- a rainy, cold Thursday -- the place was jammed. Sales assistants were frantically trying to tidy rails of clothing, a futile pursuit as the racks were only torn apart a minute later by the next wave of shoppers. I rammed my headphones in a little bit further, turned up my music in an effort to disassociate myself from the chaos, and plunged in.
Thirty minutes later (my limit for Primark), I emerged relatively unscathed and £30 lighter. The most expensive item I bought was a pair of indigo jeans for £7. I also managed to pick up a polo-neck jumper for £1, along with tons of black socks and various other comfy, warm items (my only real criteria for at-home wear).
Surprisingly, most of the items I've bought at Primark actually last. One of my favourite pair of jeans is from almost a year go, and still going strong! And all of the my Primark t-shirts still have their seams intact.
It's not glamorous by any stretch of the imagination, but if you can stomach the Primark-madness the low prices seem to induce, it's worth it -- if you can't afford anything more, anyway.
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