Heading to the real shops? Sure you're ready for this?
It's starting to feel eerie out there...
I’m in a sports shop, keen to buy new running shoes because my knees are twanging and I think it’s because of my ancient trainers.
I study the array of shoes on the wall and then glance about for someone to help me. No one comes over. There’s only one person on the huge floor, and he’s way over at the other side in a different time zone. The shop has that eerie, empty vibe common to so many retail outlets these days. Vast spaces with merchandise temptingly displayed - but barely any sign of life.
It’s weird experience, drifting around a shop in 2024. As if there’s been a mass evacuation following a chemical attack and you weren’t told. There you are, ambling about, wondering why things aren’t normal. It reminds me of turning up in Verona with my ex on an Inter-railing trip in 1993 and not realising it was a Patron Saint Day and everything was shut.
In the real shops it always feels like Patron Saint Day now. Although sometimes there are staff hiding away, secretly. At first, when I ventured into Victoria’s Secret (not for my demographic, I realise, but I needed a bra in a hurry), the entire store seemed deserted. I should add that the Glasgow branch occupies roughly the same landmass as the Highlands so it felt unsettling, creeping around a hangar full of lingerie. I was about to leave when several eager salespeople sprang out of nowhere to greet me and rushed off to find different styles and sizes and then ushered me lovingly into a changing cubicle.
Weird, yes - because the staff:customer ratio felt a bit off. But not entirely horrible.
In contrast, in the running shop no one comes. ‘HELLO!’ I want to shout. ‘Here I am, with my money, wanting to listen to your boring highly-detailed advice about over-pronating and gait, and buy your shoes!’
Still no one comes.
Please, I beg you! Mansplain to me about stride motion and foot cushioning!
A young man appears, observing me from a distance with a hollow look. As if he’s realised I’m his Tinder date and he’s thinking, Shall I leave now before she spots me? Or stay for one drink and say my aunt’s died?
I flash him a hopeful smile. ‘Come over!’ I want to cry out. ‘Don’t be scared. Let’s pretend it’s the olden days when you’d put me on your treadmill and make me pound along embarrassingly with boobs thrashing in my non-supportive bra!’
Finally he sidles over, and I tell him all about my thrilling knee issues and that I’m in the market for extortionately-priced shoes.
He looks baffled. Perhaps this isn’t a shop after all, but the newly founded Sportswear Museum? Or is it me, and I’ve stopped making sense? If I were a hot, pert-bosomed 20 year-old would he help me? I pause to give him space to babble pseudo-scientific stuff at me. Just enough to reassure me to throw my money at him.
He just stands there, looking so depressed I can’t help feeling sorry for him. ‘Could I, er try some shoes?’ I ask.
He lopes off, and when he returns with a couple of pairs, I’m dithering between sizes. So I ask if he could feel around the toe area, to see which is the best fit.
He looks appalled at this - as if I’ve asked him to fondle my naked old lady arse. It’s like the last time I went for a bikini wax (in something like 1842), and the young technician gawped at my offending lady area and rushed away, returning with scissors of an industrial nature and grimacing, as if about to skin a rat.
I’m experiencing a similar fear that there’s something physically wrong with me. But maybe this lad simply hates his job? It must be lonely, working here. Every day must feel like a month. He comes into work and by the time he goes home, gadgets have slipped into obsolescence and species become extinct.
I bet he’s worried that he - as a human sales assistant - is about to tipple over into extinction too, like this.
Of course he doesn’t want to help me. ‘Didus ineptus’ is too busy counting the minutes until he can leave this wretched store and anaethetise himself with strong booze. And who can blame him?
But, y’know, we keep hearing about the high street fighting back, and that the focus is on ‘experience retail’ that you can’t get online. We hear about talks and events and interactive wizardry - but what does this mean exactly?
In the 80s I worked in Carnaby Street in London, close to the department store of dreams. Liberty was - and still is - the epitome of glamour and now I see they offer complimentary calligraphy, access to a ‘fragrance lounge’ (with a fragrance concierge) and the chance to meet Trinny Woodall.
I don’t expect all that in the running shop. Really, I don’t expect anything. I just wanna buy some shoes!
Love,
Fiona xx
PS Now the season has ‘turned’ you might fancy cosying up with my new novel - ‘Tis the Damn Season. If the thought of colossal festive to-do lists triggers a panicky sensation in your gut - then this is for you! You can order it here (if you’ve already bought, borrowed, read or reviewed it, then huge thanks to you!).
Also, my lovely publishers, Boldwood, have created a newsletter for me, which will be sent out very occasionally - detailing new books, competitions etc. You can sign up here. Thank you! x
This is so funny and sad. I know exactly that depressed, vacant look the shop staff give you. Like they have no idea why you're there, or why they're there, or what's the point of anything, really...
I haven't got a running shoe shopping experience story to tell because a) I haven't run since the year dot and b) I still refer to trainers as daps ! But I know exactly what you mean. Husband and I went fridge freezer shopping. After perusing the aisles of many pretty identical fridges and deciding on a Bosch only because we liked the colour (charcoal grey) we waited for a shop assistant to appear so we could start the whole buying business. None appeared. Maybe it was because nobody could see us hidden in the Bosch, Meile, LG, Logix, Hoover, Samsung alley. So we ventured out. Still no one. We decided to split and seek out. You take the washing machine area, I instructed husband. I'll take cookers. Off we went. I spied a purple polo shirted chap. Success, but it was short lived. He was on his way back to TVs and kitchen appliances wasn't his department. Damn! I looked across the shop and spied my six foot five husband waving frantically in my direction. We were in luck. We then spent the next ten minutes turning down all the add-ons and answering a customer care questionnaire before leaving the shop and deciding that the washing machine could last a bit longer.
The fridge freezer arrived and it was huge. Taller than my husband. It looked smaller in the shop, but it'll have to do!