I will never understand women, and I don’t even attempt the fruitless task of trying to, but if there’s one thing that baffles more than the rest, it’s the phenomenon of shopping.
I enjoy buying myself new things. At a stretch, I’ll even say it’s sometimes enjoyable to buy things for others. But the rabid ferocity in which the female gender attacks the queues and racks of the department store is nearly horrifying in its regard.
I had the misfortune and lack of foresight to appear busy on the day my wonderful girlfriend, bless her, insisted that we had waited and delayed long enough and that our English shopping experience was far overdue. Reluctantly, I agreed, since I too had to buy a few souvenirs for my friends back home. Unfortunately, she decided to go to the biggest and most expensive department store in England, and dare I say, the world: Harrod’s, home to dreams made reality, and then cruelly crushed beneath the heavy boot of luxury.
How can I describe such a place to you? It’s simultaneously a place of wonder and disgust. The decor is impeccable, the lighting golden, the presentation downright stunning. Multiple lifts (elevators) carry you through floors upon floors of products that seem thoughtfully placed to obstruct you every where you wish to walk, practically jumping out from behind corners and from the inside of display cases to catch your eye and scream, “Buy me!” It’s altogether a nearly magical place.
On the other hand, the place could not be more frustrating. Navigation aside, each product is also designed to thwart their own purchase at the last moment. You may come across a beautiful gown, one so well-made you could swear it was woven by faeries out of morning dew. You may be so enchanted by this dress you immediately lay hands on it as if it may disappear at any moment. Then you might check the price tag, expecting a vast sum, a queen’s ransom that might buy the whole of England if the queen was not safely sitting on her throne in Buckingham Palace. Then reality strikes as you discover the dress costs twice as much.
I am not rich, and neither is my girlfriend, and so, we spent most of our time browsing, and not buying. Only twice did we make a purchase, the first to buy some pistachio Turkish Delight, and the second, some Macaroons.
The rest of our day was still quite eventful. We attended a musical, by the name of Sister Act, in London’s Palladium Theatre. This comedy, based on a film by Whoopie Goldberg, was as delightful as the original, with the additional of a live-cast and many scenes accentuated by the random bursting into of song. Altogether immensely entertaining, as the storyline was good and the acting was devoid of slip-ups.
To recap: Visited Harrod’s of London, and watched Sister Act in the Palladium theatre.
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