Shopachronic

My wife was recently reading one of the "Shopaholic" series of chic-lit books. Although not a chick myself, but more of a grumpy old git that sometimes likes to get in touch with his feminine side, I stole it away and read it myself. I was immediately amused, entranced and ensnared in the antics of a fictitious woman who just has to shop!

Now, I know that where women are concerned, shopping is a kind of divine ritual which just has to be done no matter what and no matter what the state of the home finances might be. In the book, the heroine. although in deep financial trouble herself, and ironically is employed as a columnist in a savings magazine, just cannot stop shopping and keeps buying expensive and exotic things even though she doesn't actually need them, but then if they are sold at such a fantastic discount, then you would have to be mad not to buy - I mean you are actually SAVING money if you do!!

I have to admit, that unlike many men, I do actually like shopping. I think its a primeval thing going back to that part in my genetic make-up that sends me out into the wild to hunt and kill and bring back the trophies to a grateful wife and family who are massively impressed by my great dexterity and cunning in acquiring such wonderful things! At least, it might be like that in my mind, but the reality is that I rarely buy myself anything and even when I do I have to justify it to myself. I mean - do I really NEED it? Is it something which will make a possible difference to my life? If its a book, well if its non-fiction does it contain information I could get for nothing off the Internet? Okay, its a book I really want so could I buy it for cheaper as an ebook? Hang on, what about all the books you have already, and you haven't read them yet. So I don't buy it.

Right, never mind anything - I've got some spare cash so I'M DETERMINED TO TREAT MYSELF. How about a new camera? Well, Jessops has just gone under, so can't look there. Never mind, John Lewis is always good - yeah, great, they've got a whole range of real hot quality cameras. Hang on a moment - whats wrong with the  DSLR you already have, not to mention the 12 mega pixel bridge camera, and have you forgotten the 8 mega pixel camera on your smart phone? Okay, forget it, so lets get a movie camera instead. Not so fast.....the voice from within shouts - you already have 1080P on both your cameras and guess what? - 1080P on your smart phone so JUST FORGET IT YOU ARE NOT GETTING IT BECAUSE ITS A COMPLETE WASTE OF MONEY AND YOU ARE JUST SPENDING FOR THE SAKE OF IT!!!!!

This is just not fair, surely theres something I can buy myself - I know - a cappuccino and a muffin in Muffin Break - yeah ecstasy!

Finally, I do end up getting something, but more likely along the lines of a pack of 4 gel pens for £4.60 from Staples. ...or something............................ oh well, lets get the groceries - I don't have to justify not starving!

Minutes before opening

I carry a camera with me most places I go. 

This is a shot I took in the Galleria, Hatfield one Sunday morning a few minutes before the shops were due to open.

This shot, as far as I am concerned, is like Marmite - you either love it, or you hate it.

I love it.

I like the way the the eye is led to the main hall out of the car parking access hall. 

I like the contrast between the foreground artificial lighting, and the reflected daylight, helping to give the picture depth.

I like the feeling of movement with people moving across and away from the camera. 

I like the spontaneity of the shot - an everyday scene which hardly anyone would bother to photograph. It is, however, the everyday scenes which we need to record because although they might seem boring and trite to our eyes, in the future they will be a statement of the past.

Ordinarily, the access hall is buzzing with shoppers hustling and bustling. On this occasion, they are not there. The time is not yet right, the rush is not yet, the calm before the rush......

Woolworths

I find it a great shame that Woolworths has gone into receivership. I am probably partly to blame because I can't honestly remember the last time I bought anything there. Of late, I have found Woolworths stores to be a bit like glorified rummage (or jumble) sales. That may sound a tad unkind, and I suppose it is. I think over the decades Woolworth lost its way. Whereas other stores evolved and changed with the times (remember when Dixons was a photographic shop?), Woolworths just carried on in the same old way and got swamped by the competition. How often do you find yourself thinking “Wow, I simply must go to Woolworths and see what's new”. No, you don't. When I think of Woolworths now I think of Pick and Mix and CDs I can buy for cheaper elsewhere. It wasn't always like that.

When I was a toddler in a pushchair, there was a gap in the row of shops at the local shopping centre. The gap comprised of a small grassed area, which I suppose was a field!!! One day, builders arrived and worked on it. A few months later, our brand spanking new Woolworths was finished and there was great excitement in the town while we waited for the first day of opening. There was no self-service then, but lots of counters with uniformed girls behind them waiting to serve you.

Amongst my school mates, Woolworths became the shop of choice for nicking things. I never stooped to this low level myself, but did get thrown out one day for letting off a stink bomb near the toy counter. Talking of bombs, cap bombs were another favourite item I would buy in Woolworths.

The toy counter was, to me, a joy to behold. One of my favourite toys at the time, was a red plastic rubber band powered aircraft kit. They never seemed to last long though; I was always crashing them. I remember the counter right at the end of the shop which was full of different types of torches and every kind of battery. Batteries at the time, didn't last long, and we were always warming them by the fire to squeeze an extra bit of life out of them. No trip to the shops was complete without popping into Woolies.

Today, if I go to Woolworths, it is only when I am at a very loose end that I go in to take a look. The shop today, is a bit of an anachronism, an institution from the past which seems a little out of place and somewhat quaint on the modern high street. Even so, if it disappears, I guess I shall miss it because it is one more link with my youth vanishing into oblivion.

Ikea

Today, I undertook the ultimate shopping experience with my wife. It had to be with my wife, because a trip to Ikea is something a man never undertakes by himself, but only as a result of the cudgelling of a shopping crazed spouse. I have been building up to this for the last week. A few days ago, my wife, in idle conversation mentioned the word “Ikea”. This is a word, a name, an experience I had been trying to forget. I have been in receipt of psychiatric counselling since my last visit. I would suffer from nightmares, night terrors in fact, and wake up in a cold sweat and screaming “Where's the exit – where's the exit” as I was convinced I was trapped in a world filled with hordes of the undead, green skinned and fowl smelling rotting flesh, forever following an endless succession of arrows marked on the floor, and never, ever being able to break free into the outside world and freedom. Yesterday, almost inexplicably, my wife received in the mail a £10 Ikea shopping voucher. This was almost unreal. Sensing the unseen powers of the universe at work, and my wife exclaiming that we are obviously meant to go, I resigned myself to the inevitability of today's expedition.

Now, as soon as the word “Ikea” is voiced, I know it is only a matter of time before I will be going back, inexorably drawn by its siren calling and the lure of Swedish Swedishness. And I have to admit, I have been pretty much sucked in. In my study, or computer room as I sometimes call it, I have three Ikea bookcases, all black, with white “doily” patterns on them. They look really garish and everyone hates them - except me. The walls are painted blood red, which blends well with the red table lamp which I bought for a song at Ikea. As you can tell, I am a real style guru.

I first came across Ikea some 28 years ago when I was living in Germany. It was this big blue building I would drive past on my way from Mönchengladbach to Düsseldorf. I never went into it, and the innards remained a mystery to me for years, until we came across it again in England. Then we had our first visit.

What makes Ikea so different from every other shop is that it is laid out in a totally different way to every other shop. It has a beginning and an end, a start and a finish. Once inside, you reach the starting line at the top of the escalator, and then work your way around the course, following the arrows on the floor, until you emerge, hopefully (if you work for Ikea), laden down with a vast mass and array of goods you never knew you wanted or needed. The course you follow is a long one – a bit of a marathon in fact. Its a bit like trekking up a mountain. When you think you have reached the top, there is always something beyond, and so you stagger on, never quiet sure where you are and when the end will be reached. Along the way, you will pass myriad examples of every type of household item you could ever want – or never want, and many of them at extremely low prices. It really is a case of “stack-em high and sell-em cheap.” Another thing about Ikea is that it is impossible to have a quick visit. Every trip to Ikea is a major event, and conscious of the hours and hours customers spend in the always overcrowded store, they have a large restaurant to feed the starving masses before they are once again ejected into the never regions of the beyond, well, the car park, anyway.

And so it was that I have now found myself the proud owner of a set of eight coat hangers I didn't know we wanted, a set of 6 wine glasses I didn't know we wanted, a load of golden Christmas baubles I didn't know we wanted, and two tall-boy multi-shelved cabinets my wife has been telling me we do want. Of course, they are flat pack – what else? And of course, we will be spending a good proportion of tomorrow banging and screwing the things together before they are proudly placed into position in our porch where they will be used as posh shoe-racks in place of the course, ugly, lude rack occupying the space at the moment, and due to be re-employed in the depths of the garage, out of sight from those who might frown upon their banality.

One has to maintain one's standards – even if they are cheap and Swedish.