One of the words which will always strike fear into me, like
a finely crafted stiletto, is the word ‘Shopping’.
It’s not like, ‘need to pick something up from the shops’,
which means there is an actual purpose to the proceedings, but the word ‘Shopping’,
especially when accompanied by the word ‘Sale’, conjures up an entirely
different prospective experience. It means that I will be dragged around the
mall as a walking talking coat hanger hangerer, my only purpose in life being
to stick out an arm with the fingers extending whilst all manner of stuff is
hooked on in case some other woman comes along and grabs the only remain size
whatever. I walk around the shop aimlessly following in her stead and feeling
the weight of yet another article as it is placed along with the masses already
drooping off my arm. I get sympathetic glances from my fellow man, maybe a look
of horror from some man who has just entered the shop, trailing in the wake of
his nearest and dearest and knowing full well that the plight that I am
currently suffering will surely soon be his. I clatter into things and people
for the simple reason that I can’t bloody well see! I hear the tut-tut’s and
see the withering glances from the unaccompanied women who have to make do with
their own arms to carry the stuff around, while the pile draped around me only
gets bigger. What happens then? Well, I then have to retrace my steps, because
in her wisdom she has decided that everything that she has hung off my fingers
is either “too long” “too pink” “too short” “too thin” etc, etc, etc. A few
minutes later I can then rest my weary and aching arms as the last item is hung
back on the rack and she makes an exit, deciding that nothing has come up to
her high expectation. Me? I’m ignored as she has that look on her face which
means that she is already thinking of the shop next door and what delights that
it might have to offer. It’s a look of steely resolve, one of fierce determination
as she flexes her elbows (shadow jabbing) in readiness for the next assault. I
receive a twitch of the head as she leaves the shop, an indication that I’m too
slow and that I’m lagging behind and if I know what’s good for me that perhaps
I should hurry up because the particular thing that she is maybe looking for is
waiting next door and there is no time to waste in the pursuit of whatever it
is that she is after, even though she hasn’t a bloody clue what it is!
Then there’s the other shop, the one that sells absolutely
nothing of any use whatsoever, the one that people go in purely because it’s
there and that it has a sticker on the window which says, yes, you guessed it,
‘Sale’.
“What are we going in here for?” I ask, a bewildered look on
my face.
“Because I want to,” she replies, confused.
“But we don’t need anything here,” I counter.
“I don’t know that yet, I might find something that I want.”
I shake my head to clear the fugginess. “But you already
know that you don’t want anything here otherwise you would have said that we
had to come in here, so if you know that you don’t want anything, then there is
no reason to go in and have a look.”
The look I receive is one that would turn anyone else to
stone; I’ve had the inoculations so I am relatively safe, for the moment at
least. I sigh, and then follow her in.
Which brings me to my point.
Shopping malls have crèches for children; surely they should
also have crèches for men too? You know the sort of place, nice comfy chairs, a
telly with the football on, tea and coffee on tap, a few in-date magazines; the
sort of place where we can go and sit quietly out of the way while she goes out
into mall to do her worst to the bank account. That way there will be no
arguing, no accusing looks, no angst, no boredom! The men will high-five each
other on entering and sit down with a nice cuppa and a biscuit, we could also
have a little remote device connected to a tag that the missus has to take with
her so that she can come and claim us when she’s finished. But this device will
have a cctv attached so we can see what she’s up to, and then there could be a
switch that we can flick that gives her an electric shock (only mild mind you,
he,he he!) whenever she looks at something too expensive, as we all know women never ever look at the price tag!
A gentleman’s crèche.....what a boon to shopping that would be!
