I had been warned it was difficult being a vegetarian when travelling. And yep Madrid sort of proved that.
Well technically I’m not a vegetarian; I do eat meat. But I have a phobia of chicken (I blame 5th form food technology), British beef is, well, not the same as New Zealand beef (insert “chewy” here), the price of lamb in London is a little too exorbitant for my monthly wage, and pork really doesn’t do it for me. On the plus side, I do eat seafood – as long as it’s not raw, isn’t slimy, and doesn’t come in a shell.
Yes some would say I’m a fussy eater (and mum I know what you’re thinking). But I will eat pretty much any vegetable. That’s got to balance it all out, surely. Plus vegetables are so versatile and when cooked properly they are anything but boring.
However, the Spanish capital Madrid is not what I would call a vegetarian Mecca.
Ok yes they do eat a lot of vegetables – but only when mixed into meat dishes. Madrid doesn’t really have a meat and three veg sort of cuisine, while salads are pretty much non-existent. And according to our tapas guide, if you’re a meat eater but don’t eat pork then you are considered a vegetarian in Spain, and in his words “you’re screwed” food-wise.
Great, so there I am starting out on the wrong foot in a country where eating is practically a national institution.
Not only am I not allowed to eat dinner before 9pm, I’m being forced to eat meat.
Actually the first two nights in Madrid weren’t too bad – aubergine and pasta dishes – and then we realised we were eating in an Italian restaurant. Go figure.
Of course I stayed away from paella – rice and meat (and some veggies) – but only because I was told Madrid is not a coastal city. Enough said.
But tapas, surely you can’t go wrong with tapas. Tasty bite-size morsels of food, which, funnily enough, you always think is good for a diet but then you end up eating more than you bargained for.
So, what have we got here? Pork, pork, chicken, cured ham, pork, anchovies, weird black-pudding-type salami, pungent-smelling God-knows-what. Right, so that tapas I had in Mayfair is a little different then to the traditional Spanish stuff. Diet anyone?
Actually that diet is looking pretty attractive when the one vegetarian tapas dish I find – grilled aubergine – turns out to be nine euros on closer inspection. Nine euros? For one slice of grilled aubergine? Is someone taking the mickey?
And lunch – I’m still not 100% sure what Spaniards eat for lunch. All I wanted was a sandwich shop. Though according to the travel books it is often a three course meal. Which makes sense when you think siesta.
Of course the food wasn’t all as bad as I’ve made it out to be. I can’t complain about the drinks. Sangria – now we’re talking…
Monday, 2 November 2009
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
In the blink of an eye
London is blessed with a plethora of museums and art galleries. From old operating equipment and pickled specimens to canal boats and giant cracks in the floor classed as “modern art”, it’s a paradise for anyone who is into antiquity, culture and the downright weird.
Now I don’t know about you, but I can only hack a museum or art gallery for a maximum of about two hours. After that my feet are sore, my posture goes and everything I’ve read is starting to evaporate into the ether. And this after only venturing into one corner of the museum – there’s still three floors to go.
So it comes down to a choice – do I give up and go home or do I rest my feet and partake in a cup of overpriced coffee?
Ah ha and there’s the catch. So much for a free outing in London. Those wily marketing managers have caught on to something here – let’s provide for our tired and thirsty punters who have completed a two-hour museum stint. Their eyesight is fuzzy from the exhibit’s small print and blood sugar levels are running low – oh gee wiz how convenient that the museum comes with its own cafeteria. And with a £5 price tag for a cup of coffee, this is the perfect scam (well I suppose someone has to pay the cleaner).
So how do you get around all this and avoid the pricey afternoon snack?
Simple answer – speed walk.
It comes highly recommended if you are a time-is-of-the-essence type person.
For myself, I can successfully say I have “done” the V&A (Victoria and Albert Museum to those not familiar with London). Yep, two hours in and out – walked past practically every exhibit (the iron gatepost exhibit twice) and had time to queue for the ladies.
The trick is to speed walk – as in don’t stop walking. None of this dawdling, taking your time. I’m talking brisk striding here. You’ve come to the museum for a purpose and that is to walk every floor, every section, in as little time as possible.
Sure there is no time to contemplate the massive beauty of the Egyptian sculptures or read the fine print in the rug section, but seriously it would just go in one ear and out the other anyway.
And ok I admit, you might look like one of those fun-fair mechanical clown faces that rhythmically move their heads from side to side, but this is London. There is always too much to see and not enough time to do it in.
Speed walking, my friend, is the way of the future.
Now I don’t know about you, but I can only hack a museum or art gallery for a maximum of about two hours. After that my feet are sore, my posture goes and everything I’ve read is starting to evaporate into the ether. And this after only venturing into one corner of the museum – there’s still three floors to go.
So it comes down to a choice – do I give up and go home or do I rest my feet and partake in a cup of overpriced coffee?
Ah ha and there’s the catch. So much for a free outing in London. Those wily marketing managers have caught on to something here – let’s provide for our tired and thirsty punters who have completed a two-hour museum stint. Their eyesight is fuzzy from the exhibit’s small print and blood sugar levels are running low – oh gee wiz how convenient that the museum comes with its own cafeteria. And with a £5 price tag for a cup of coffee, this is the perfect scam (well I suppose someone has to pay the cleaner).
So how do you get around all this and avoid the pricey afternoon snack?
Simple answer – speed walk.
It comes highly recommended if you are a time-is-of-the-essence type person.
For myself, I can successfully say I have “done” the V&A (Victoria and Albert Museum to those not familiar with London). Yep, two hours in and out – walked past practically every exhibit (the iron gatepost exhibit twice) and had time to queue for the ladies.
The trick is to speed walk – as in don’t stop walking. None of this dawdling, taking your time. I’m talking brisk striding here. You’ve come to the museum for a purpose and that is to walk every floor, every section, in as little time as possible.
Sure there is no time to contemplate the massive beauty of the Egyptian sculptures or read the fine print in the rug section, but seriously it would just go in one ear and out the other anyway.
And ok I admit, you might look like one of those fun-fair mechanical clown faces that rhythmically move their heads from side to side, but this is London. There is always too much to see and not enough time to do it in.
Speed walking, my friend, is the way of the future.
Tuesday, 11 August 2009
Classical torture
When I was 12 years old I went to the Proms at the Royal Albert Hall. I remember it as one of the most boring experiences of my life. As a 12-year-old it was like watching paint dry while sitting in an extremely uncomfortable chair and being forbidden to either a) move or b) talk. In other words, pure torture.
Back then, I was clearly lacking in sophistication and cultural understanding. But now days my mother would be proud, having finally found an appreciation of classical music – and actually, to be honest, I quite enjoy it.
Hence my recent outing to the proms.
The chairs are just as uncomfortable but the music is considerably better.
I was having a lovely time. I talked to a nice Egyptian lad who had extremely white teeth (I’m not sure why that was important but for some reason it stood out) and by the end of the first half I was thinking this was all jolly good.
Ah, but I spoke too soon.
Some little monster in the row in front was clearly finding the music and uncomfortable chair hard going and so had decided to play on his mobile phone. There was no sound other than the incessant tap, tap, tap of the keys, which was annoyingly not in time, and out of tune, with the music.
At first I just tried to ignore it. But after 15 minutes it was starting to do my head in. Were the people on either side of this chap – possibly his parents – not finding this equally annoying? Did they not want to tell him to behave himself? (Ok so he was possibly in his late teens/early 20s, but that’s beside the point).
Thankfully a few minutes in and he stops. I practically breathe an audible sigh of relief.
But that was short lived. He then starts fidgeting wildly and has a couple of whispered conversations with his companions. Meanwhile, if looks could kill he would have been dead ten times over by this stage.
I briefly wonder if this was what I was like when I was 12.
The thought soon passes when he goes back to the dratted mobile phone. I try sitting there with one finger in my ear as an attempt to block out the taps.
But with the finger in the ear routine not being particularly successful (damn the excellent acoustics of the Royal Albert Hall) I start to seriously considering leaning over and asking the little s***head if he could please stop being so bleep, bleep (insert rude words here) annoying. But how do you do that politely? How many swear words would be one too many? How can I ensure he doesn’t start up again just to spite me? Is it ethical to confiscate his phone? Or should I just hit him over the head and be done with it?
All this is going through my head (while I’m not concentrating on the lovely music in the background). And then I think, what if he has ADHD? If that’s the case, wouldn’t it be wrong to ask him to behave himself? It’s not like he can help having a low attention span (though I’m sure television advertisements have something to do with it). I mean, that is actually quite nice that his parents – assuming his companions are his parents – even brought him along to such a concert.
And actually the situation could be worse. He could have Tourette Syndrome and be screaming out obscenities every time the percussionist hit the timpani – and considering how often the current piece involved the timpani that would be pretty damn annoying.
So in the end I refrain from saying anything. Instead I just sit there fuming (and berating myself that a) I don’t have the courage to say anything, and b) for actually imagining hitting the guy on the head).
An hour goes by. The piece ends. I can’t believe I spent more time focussing on the mobile tapper than the concert. Maybe better luck next time.
Back then, I was clearly lacking in sophistication and cultural understanding. But now days my mother would be proud, having finally found an appreciation of classical music – and actually, to be honest, I quite enjoy it.
Hence my recent outing to the proms.
The chairs are just as uncomfortable but the music is considerably better.
I was having a lovely time. I talked to a nice Egyptian lad who had extremely white teeth (I’m not sure why that was important but for some reason it stood out) and by the end of the first half I was thinking this was all jolly good.
Ah, but I spoke too soon.
Some little monster in the row in front was clearly finding the music and uncomfortable chair hard going and so had decided to play on his mobile phone. There was no sound other than the incessant tap, tap, tap of the keys, which was annoyingly not in time, and out of tune, with the music.
At first I just tried to ignore it. But after 15 minutes it was starting to do my head in. Were the people on either side of this chap – possibly his parents – not finding this equally annoying? Did they not want to tell him to behave himself? (Ok so he was possibly in his late teens/early 20s, but that’s beside the point).
Thankfully a few minutes in and he stops. I practically breathe an audible sigh of relief.
But that was short lived. He then starts fidgeting wildly and has a couple of whispered conversations with his companions. Meanwhile, if looks could kill he would have been dead ten times over by this stage.
I briefly wonder if this was what I was like when I was 12.
The thought soon passes when he goes back to the dratted mobile phone. I try sitting there with one finger in my ear as an attempt to block out the taps.
But with the finger in the ear routine not being particularly successful (damn the excellent acoustics of the Royal Albert Hall) I start to seriously considering leaning over and asking the little s***head if he could please stop being so bleep, bleep (insert rude words here) annoying. But how do you do that politely? How many swear words would be one too many? How can I ensure he doesn’t start up again just to spite me? Is it ethical to confiscate his phone? Or should I just hit him over the head and be done with it?
All this is going through my head (while I’m not concentrating on the lovely music in the background). And then I think, what if he has ADHD? If that’s the case, wouldn’t it be wrong to ask him to behave himself? It’s not like he can help having a low attention span (though I’m sure television advertisements have something to do with it). I mean, that is actually quite nice that his parents – assuming his companions are his parents – even brought him along to such a concert.
And actually the situation could be worse. He could have Tourette Syndrome and be screaming out obscenities every time the percussionist hit the timpani – and considering how often the current piece involved the timpani that would be pretty damn annoying.
So in the end I refrain from saying anything. Instead I just sit there fuming (and berating myself that a) I don’t have the courage to say anything, and b) for actually imagining hitting the guy on the head).
An hour goes by. The piece ends. I can’t believe I spent more time focussing on the mobile tapper than the concert. Maybe better luck next time.
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
Getting under the skin
London is the place if you want to see the weird and wonderful. And the Body Worlds exhibition is no exception – expect giggling teenagers and voyeurs.
The exhibition, held at the O2 Bubble, has a number of models on show, which are all real human bodies donated at death for medical science. They have been preserved using a technique called plastination and are displayed in various poses, skin removed and cut open to show the anatomy of the human body – all in the name of education.
It’s sort of gruesome and probably not recommended when hung-over.
They don’t smell, which is a plus, but some of the exhibits do look like their sweating. And viewing them, other than the desire not to get too close, is the overwhelming thought of beef jerky.
But it was the eyelashes that did it for me. Here were these models stripped of their skin, eyeballs staring unseeing from their sockets and still complete with a set of bleached eyelashes. One word – creepy.
In fact the hair in general wasn’t particularly pleasant. One model whose skin had been removed and modelled next to the body, like a piece of clothing, included all the body hairs – if you get my drift. To top it off the soles of his feet were dirty.
With gentle music playing in the background there was a hushed silence as people viewed the models and had quiet discussions about various parts of the anatomy. The quiet was often punctuated by the giggles of a teenager who thought some body part was worth a laugh.
The R16 room was considerably more, shall we say, lively where a man and woman model were in the midst of a passionate sexual act (well as passionate as you can be when you’re dead and your skin has been removed). The abdomen of the woman had been cut away so as to view the erect member in place. It’s not like this was anything new – I’m pretty sure we’ve all seen the images in sex-ed class – yet everyone crowded around staring intently and whispering furiously behind their hands.
What I couldn’t understand was the point of an R16 room when the room next door, albeit not so graphic, was still along the same lines with various organs on show.
Besides the plasticised models there were exhibits of diseased lungs from smoking, haemorrhages in the brain, and a cross section of an obese person.
But top on the list was a plasticised giraffe. Now that’s something you don’t see every day.
The exhibition, held at the O2 Bubble, has a number of models on show, which are all real human bodies donated at death for medical science. They have been preserved using a technique called plastination and are displayed in various poses, skin removed and cut open to show the anatomy of the human body – all in the name of education.
It’s sort of gruesome and probably not recommended when hung-over.
They don’t smell, which is a plus, but some of the exhibits do look like their sweating. And viewing them, other than the desire not to get too close, is the overwhelming thought of beef jerky.
But it was the eyelashes that did it for me. Here were these models stripped of their skin, eyeballs staring unseeing from their sockets and still complete with a set of bleached eyelashes. One word – creepy.
In fact the hair in general wasn’t particularly pleasant. One model whose skin had been removed and modelled next to the body, like a piece of clothing, included all the body hairs – if you get my drift. To top it off the soles of his feet were dirty.
With gentle music playing in the background there was a hushed silence as people viewed the models and had quiet discussions about various parts of the anatomy. The quiet was often punctuated by the giggles of a teenager who thought some body part was worth a laugh.
The R16 room was considerably more, shall we say, lively where a man and woman model were in the midst of a passionate sexual act (well as passionate as you can be when you’re dead and your skin has been removed). The abdomen of the woman had been cut away so as to view the erect member in place. It’s not like this was anything new – I’m pretty sure we’ve all seen the images in sex-ed class – yet everyone crowded around staring intently and whispering furiously behind their hands.
What I couldn’t understand was the point of an R16 room when the room next door, albeit not so graphic, was still along the same lines with various organs on show.
Besides the plasticised models there were exhibits of diseased lungs from smoking, haemorrhages in the brain, and a cross section of an obese person.
But top on the list was a plasticised giraffe. Now that’s something you don’t see every day.
Sunday, 12 July 2009
Detesting the dentist
Ok so call me weird, but I actually quite like going to the dentist. It’s sort of therapeutic having my mouth yanked in various directions as the tartar is chipped off my teeth. Maybe I see it as absolving my sins so to speak, some puritanical flagellation to make up for any bad things I’ve done.
Of course, I’m not stupid and I avoid seeing a dentist for as long as possible. However, I clearly pissed off a lot of people since I last went almost three years ago because my latest trip went from mere flagellation to outright torture.
All I wanted was a check up and a clean. It wasn’t like I was asking for a root canal or a full on extraction.
It all started on arrival where I was forced to wait half an hour because they were running late – how at 10am you’re running late I’m not sure, but anyway. But there were no magazines to read – unless you could understand Portuguese. So all I could do was admire the way the paint had dried on the walls and get increasingly worried about whether I might need a filling. Now I wasn’t freaking out, but any sane person who has a fear of dentists might have found the wait uncomfortable to say the least.
So finally I get through and hand over my patient survey. Am I taking any medications? No. Do I have a history of heart disease? No. Am I allergic to penicillin? No. How many units of alcohol do I drink a week? I veer on the side of conservatism – um 10 units.
I’m not quite sure of the relevancy of some of the questions. Really, how is arthritis going to affect my dental health?
But once the latex gloves are snapped on and four different items of torture are thrust into my mouth I think they have made a bit of a mistake with the patient survey. They really should have asked: Do you have a phobia of dentists? Where do you rate your pain threshold on a scale of 1 to 10? Do you produce excessive amounts of saliva?
It was a half hour of agony.
Clearly technology has advanced since I last visited the dentist. There was none of this chipping off the tartar with a pick. No, instead it was blasted off with some high-speed supersonic evil device that ended up devouring half my gums at the same time. This was one sadistic dentist. He even had that manic look.
And then, stupid me, agrees to upgrade to a whitening as well, which involved hundreds of sand-like particles being gunned onto my teeth at more supersonic speeds while giving an effective facial dermabrasion at the same time as the particles ricocheted out of my mouth. And all the while I’m trying not to gag on my saliva – those vacuum things really are a great invention but only when used properly.
To top it off, I can’t even notice the colouration difference and all this for some £77. Frickin NHS my arse.
I’ve decided to reassess my views of dentists. After spitting blood for several hours I’ve categorically come to the conclusion that dentists are evil and I am endeavouring to brush my teeth at least twice a day plus flossing to avoid going through that again in the foreseeable future. Oh and from now on I’m going to be good.
Of course, I’m not stupid and I avoid seeing a dentist for as long as possible. However, I clearly pissed off a lot of people since I last went almost three years ago because my latest trip went from mere flagellation to outright torture.
All I wanted was a check up and a clean. It wasn’t like I was asking for a root canal or a full on extraction.
It all started on arrival where I was forced to wait half an hour because they were running late – how at 10am you’re running late I’m not sure, but anyway. But there were no magazines to read – unless you could understand Portuguese. So all I could do was admire the way the paint had dried on the walls and get increasingly worried about whether I might need a filling. Now I wasn’t freaking out, but any sane person who has a fear of dentists might have found the wait uncomfortable to say the least.
So finally I get through and hand over my patient survey. Am I taking any medications? No. Do I have a history of heart disease? No. Am I allergic to penicillin? No. How many units of alcohol do I drink a week? I veer on the side of conservatism – um 10 units.
I’m not quite sure of the relevancy of some of the questions. Really, how is arthritis going to affect my dental health?
But once the latex gloves are snapped on and four different items of torture are thrust into my mouth I think they have made a bit of a mistake with the patient survey. They really should have asked: Do you have a phobia of dentists? Where do you rate your pain threshold on a scale of 1 to 10? Do you produce excessive amounts of saliva?
It was a half hour of agony.
Clearly technology has advanced since I last visited the dentist. There was none of this chipping off the tartar with a pick. No, instead it was blasted off with some high-speed supersonic evil device that ended up devouring half my gums at the same time. This was one sadistic dentist. He even had that manic look.
And then, stupid me, agrees to upgrade to a whitening as well, which involved hundreds of sand-like particles being gunned onto my teeth at more supersonic speeds while giving an effective facial dermabrasion at the same time as the particles ricocheted out of my mouth. And all the while I’m trying not to gag on my saliva – those vacuum things really are a great invention but only when used properly.
To top it off, I can’t even notice the colouration difference and all this for some £77. Frickin NHS my arse.
I’ve decided to reassess my views of dentists. After spitting blood for several hours I’ve categorically come to the conclusion that dentists are evil and I am endeavouring to brush my teeth at least twice a day plus flossing to avoid going through that again in the foreseeable future. Oh and from now on I’m going to be good.
Saturday, 4 July 2009
Getting stoned
“Got any drugs man?” the scrawny teenager with bad hair asks. One can only assume his eyes are bloodshot, but it’s hard to tell in the 2am darkness.
After the third stumbling random approaches out little group, my friend gets the balls to ask if we look like drug-dealers.
For all intents and purposes we are an unlikely crew – a nurse, another healthcare professional, a teacher, a lawyer and a journalist. Maybe it was the striped purple blanket my lawyer friend was wearing to keep warm that gave the wrong impression – I had dubbed him Joseph and the technicolor dreamcoat.
Indeed, old Joseph seemed to fit in quite well with our surroundings – an eclectic mix of some 35,000 people, druids and hippies, and a mass of rocks plonked in the middle of an English field known simply as Stonehenge.
It was the summer solstice – the shortest night of the year. A big date on the druid, hippy and new age reveller’s calendar.
Every year they come in droves to Stonehenge to pay tribute to the rising sun at the ungodly hour of before 5am.
While the real reason for the existence for the massive stone circle is unclear with much disagreement over its mystical and ritualistic significance, there is the distinct fact that the stones are perfectly aligned along the sun’s axis on rising in midsummer and setting in midwinter.
And for years, people have taken up the opportunity to “camp out” all night to await the first rays of light while seemingly getting away with sampling herbal and synthetic substances despite a strong police presence.
The teenagers asking for drugs are the least interesting of the sun-worshippers. It’s the others that are so alluring – it’s a “we’re not in Kansas anymore” environment.
They wear cloaks, with flowers in their hair and wizened staffs in their hands. Some are in need of a finding a hairdresser, others a shower. Many need to revisit their toilet manners and potty training (in my mind, long grass is not classed as a human toilet).
There are drums of all types, tin whistles and even a guitar played with a bank card. And all the time a lingering pong permeates through the air.
The hard part isn’t really trying to stay awake until the 4.45am sunrise; it is trying to stay warm. Our massive tarpaulin soon becomes a plastic blanket around a group hug. I have to admit the cold is good for one thing – it keeps the nudists at bay.
But if it was warm you were wanting, being crammed in the middle of the stones with several hundred other people dancing to the beat of bongo drums and tin whistles is a pretty good way to go. It is also the place for an inside picture of the summer solstice frequenters – a guy with a shrunken head on the end of a staff, another with a musical instrument a cross between a horn and a didgeridoo. Between foot-stamping and chanting the revellers irregularly whoop and cheer loudly as if calling on the gods. It's a frenzy to say the least.
As sunrise approaches we all stand around waiting with anticipation, almost expecting some giant cavern to open in the centre of the stones and for Armageddon to be upon us.
But it is an anti-climax. Should have guessed the awesome British weather would get in the way. Sun? Ha, there is no sun. And after 15 minutes of waiting, just to check there are no sacrifices of interest, we follow the masses back towards civilisation, a strong coffee and a warm bed.
After the third stumbling random approaches out little group, my friend gets the balls to ask if we look like drug-dealers.
For all intents and purposes we are an unlikely crew – a nurse, another healthcare professional, a teacher, a lawyer and a journalist. Maybe it was the striped purple blanket my lawyer friend was wearing to keep warm that gave the wrong impression – I had dubbed him Joseph and the technicolor dreamcoat.
Indeed, old Joseph seemed to fit in quite well with our surroundings – an eclectic mix of some 35,000 people, druids and hippies, and a mass of rocks plonked in the middle of an English field known simply as Stonehenge.
It was the summer solstice – the shortest night of the year. A big date on the druid, hippy and new age reveller’s calendar.
Every year they come in droves to Stonehenge to pay tribute to the rising sun at the ungodly hour of before 5am.
While the real reason for the existence for the massive stone circle is unclear with much disagreement over its mystical and ritualistic significance, there is the distinct fact that the stones are perfectly aligned along the sun’s axis on rising in midsummer and setting in midwinter.
And for years, people have taken up the opportunity to “camp out” all night to await the first rays of light while seemingly getting away with sampling herbal and synthetic substances despite a strong police presence.
The teenagers asking for drugs are the least interesting of the sun-worshippers. It’s the others that are so alluring – it’s a “we’re not in Kansas anymore” environment.
They wear cloaks, with flowers in their hair and wizened staffs in their hands. Some are in need of a finding a hairdresser, others a shower. Many need to revisit their toilet manners and potty training (in my mind, long grass is not classed as a human toilet).
There are drums of all types, tin whistles and even a guitar played with a bank card. And all the time a lingering pong permeates through the air.
The hard part isn’t really trying to stay awake until the 4.45am sunrise; it is trying to stay warm. Our massive tarpaulin soon becomes a plastic blanket around a group hug. I have to admit the cold is good for one thing – it keeps the nudists at bay.
But if it was warm you were wanting, being crammed in the middle of the stones with several hundred other people dancing to the beat of bongo drums and tin whistles is a pretty good way to go. It is also the place for an inside picture of the summer solstice frequenters – a guy with a shrunken head on the end of a staff, another with a musical instrument a cross between a horn and a didgeridoo. Between foot-stamping and chanting the revellers irregularly whoop and cheer loudly as if calling on the gods. It's a frenzy to say the least.
As sunrise approaches we all stand around waiting with anticipation, almost expecting some giant cavern to open in the centre of the stones and for Armageddon to be upon us.
But it is an anti-climax. Should have guessed the awesome British weather would get in the way. Sun? Ha, there is no sun. And after 15 minutes of waiting, just to check there are no sacrifices of interest, we follow the masses back towards civilisation, a strong coffee and a warm bed.
Friday, 12 June 2009
Shop till you drop
I can see why men can hate clothes shopping. It’s not just the waiting; it’s the people.
Trying to walk down Oxford Street in London is bad enough, but trying to move from rack to rack in Primark is beyond a joke.
First, there is the not-so-subconscious competition between women trying to imitate the £10,000 look of the currently in-vogue celeb.
Well, that’s all fine and dandy, but when it comes to clothes shopping I prefer my comfy clothes rather than my butt-wedged skinny jeans and monstrous heels – it’s about practicality. But it does mean I’m not on the fashion radar. While this is clearly an advantage for my fellow competitors – because, as they see it, they have right of way – it, however, does little for fighting my corner.
Next, there is actually getting to the clothes.
With several hundred beautified women all swarming around the racks there really isn’t such a word as browsing when it comes to clothes shopping. It’s more swoop and grab; like some sort of evolutionary survival behaviour.
But it also comes down to luck – once having elbowed your way to the rack, finding your size is at times almost impossible. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder if there is a vendetta against women who are below the “average size” – no size 10; ha-ha try again. I have been trumped more than once.
Yet, against the survival odds you come out with a pile of clothes to try on only to find a line, worthy of queues for Madonna tickets, snaking its way around the store. Do you give up? Bugger that – not after the torment of hunting.
Now, if you’re shopping savvy you do what every other shopper does – bypass the changing rooms and try the clothes on right there on the shop floor. Sure a coat or jacket; but seriously a pair of trousers?!
Ok so you’re my way inclined and prefer not to bare all to your competitors on the shop floor, so it’s a matter of patience and then finally, halleluiah, you get to the front of the queue only to be told it’s a maximum of six items for each changing room.
Now you have to shuttle back and forth from the changing cubicle replenishing your stock of clothes to try on and all the while envying those girls who were brave enough to drop their drawers out in public, who are probably right now enjoying a fat-free muffin and soy-latte.
The funny thing is, you go through all this for what? No one actually cares what you wear in London. You could probably get away with wearing a garbage bag and not be looked at twice. The truth is, everyone is just too worried about what they look like themselves to worry about the looks of anyone else. Now, where are my stirrup trousers?
Trying to walk down Oxford Street in London is bad enough, but trying to move from rack to rack in Primark is beyond a joke.
First, there is the not-so-subconscious competition between women trying to imitate the £10,000 look of the currently in-vogue celeb.
Well, that’s all fine and dandy, but when it comes to clothes shopping I prefer my comfy clothes rather than my butt-wedged skinny jeans and monstrous heels – it’s about practicality. But it does mean I’m not on the fashion radar. While this is clearly an advantage for my fellow competitors – because, as they see it, they have right of way – it, however, does little for fighting my corner.
Next, there is actually getting to the clothes.
With several hundred beautified women all swarming around the racks there really isn’t such a word as browsing when it comes to clothes shopping. It’s more swoop and grab; like some sort of evolutionary survival behaviour.
But it also comes down to luck – once having elbowed your way to the rack, finding your size is at times almost impossible. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder if there is a vendetta against women who are below the “average size” – no size 10; ha-ha try again. I have been trumped more than once.
Yet, against the survival odds you come out with a pile of clothes to try on only to find a line, worthy of queues for Madonna tickets, snaking its way around the store. Do you give up? Bugger that – not after the torment of hunting.
Now, if you’re shopping savvy you do what every other shopper does – bypass the changing rooms and try the clothes on right there on the shop floor. Sure a coat or jacket; but seriously a pair of trousers?!
Ok so you’re my way inclined and prefer not to bare all to your competitors on the shop floor, so it’s a matter of patience and then finally, halleluiah, you get to the front of the queue only to be told it’s a maximum of six items for each changing room.
Now you have to shuttle back and forth from the changing cubicle replenishing your stock of clothes to try on and all the while envying those girls who were brave enough to drop their drawers out in public, who are probably right now enjoying a fat-free muffin and soy-latte.
The funny thing is, you go through all this for what? No one actually cares what you wear in London. You could probably get away with wearing a garbage bag and not be looked at twice. The truth is, everyone is just too worried about what they look like themselves to worry about the looks of anyone else. Now, where are my stirrup trousers?
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