I shop a lot. Even though most of it is window shopping. I can trawl through racks of clothes for hours and hours, even if I have no intention of buying anything. I just like to check out all the amazing things I can’t have. A bit like real life Pinterest.
This has given me ample time to study the behaviour of shop assistants. They are an unusual breed. They’re a bit like real estate agents, the ones who sell uber expensive houses. The type that get confused and think they’re shit hot for having rich clients, mistaking it for their own wealth. You know the type.
In Westfield London, they have a dedicated wing of the shopping centre for all the super expensive designer brands. Tiffany, Prada, Louis Vuitton, etc. It’s the people who work in those shops that bug me the most. The snobby rude ones you want to say “get over yourself, sunshine, you’re a dolled up till troll on minimum wage, not Victoria Beckham” to. But you don’t. Or I don’t because I can’t afford Prada, you’ll find me in H&M.
Apart from microscopic change rooms with eyeshadow size mirrors in them, the other thing that irritates me is pestering sales assistants. When as soon as you walk in the door they ask if you’re looking for anything in particular. It’s such a ridiculous question to ask a female shopper. What do they expect in response? “Oh yes I’m looking for a black silk top, hip length and cut on the bias in a size 8”. Said no woman ever. Why can’t they just smile politely and leave you alone?
Or when they do ask you and you say “No, I’m just looking” and they say “Ok, just ask if you need any help”. Why thank you, I was unsure how this all worked.
And when you walk to the change room and they count your items and give you a giant plastic square with the number of items on it, what is the purpose of that? In my shopping career I’ve never seen anyone re-count the items on the way out. Usually there’s not even anyone there. I do not understand this strange ritual.
They’re nearly as annoying as waiters and waitresses who serve you your food, wait until you’ve stuffed the biggest mouthful of it in your gob and then they pounce on you and demand to know how your meal is. Wankers. But that’s a whole other blog ….
Yes I’ve had a smashing day, you?