They Just Are

The other day I lost a bet with The Girlfriend and so, rather than contently staring at the lounge wall whilst drinking shots of Jameson as I had planned to do, I found myself walking around Long Street in Cape Town instead. For those of you unfamiliar with Long Street, you may be surprised to know that it is in fact, a rather long street, approximately 1,2 km (+ - 1 mile, I think) in length, and filled with an assortment of stalls and stores.

There are of course also a wide range of poor people, con artists and various chancers who will ask you for money, but The Girlfriend’s pepper spray, together with my surly demeanor, happily kept them at bay.

It was whilst working our way up the street and going in and out of each store, that I realized why I don’t really go shopping anymore, and am usually spotted wearing clothes I stole from my dad, my brother or anyone foolish enough to leave something behind in my flat.

I tend to find shop assistants, especially the ones who are employed at trendy retail stores, to be deeply offensive. I don’t think it’s really their fault, and they are never outright rude to me, but their mere presence is enough to make me want to punch them in the mouth, before taking one of their fashionable white leather shoes, and hitting them over the head with it six or seven times, eight if they are wearing skinny jeans. Nine if they also have those puffy leather jackets on.

And those are just the females, with the guy shop assistants I would probably be far worse.

I think this loathing is down to a combination of various things –the clichéd trance / drum and bass that simply has to be played at these stores definitely being one of them. Apparently, you can’t be a trendy retail store if you don’t have Infected Mushroom on your play list. Playing anything besides relentless hard house music will immediately see your membership to the “trendy alternative shop club” revoked.

I suppose petty jealousy also comes into play. On most occasions, these young shop assistants are incredibly well-groomed, with every immaculate hair in place, and smelling like what a Greek god or goddess would no doubt smell like, were they to indulge in expensive cologne and perfume. I on the other hand, will tend to resemble a twenty-something man on the cusp of vagrancy, with dry unkempt hair, pasty complexion, irregular facial stubble, and just the faintest whiff of Jameson whiskey.

Their barely concealed smugness certainly plays a part in my feelings towards them though, especially when I desperately try and explain that I am usually a 34 waist, and it must be the store brand’s unique style and cut, that I am now forced to try on a 36 or – God forbid – a 38 instead.

Someone once suggested I should get a stylist, after I rocked up at a party wearing sandals with socks. Now in my defense, my feet were feeling rather tender after an ill-advised game of cricket, and it was a pretty nippy night to be wearing open toes, but it turns out that sandals and socks, whilst making complete sense from a comfort point of view, is a crime of fashion punishable by death, or at the very least, complete alienation by your peers.

Not that this phases me though, I don’t really mind being a fashion reprobate, but I do draw the line at ill-advised comments about my waist.

While I may generally be a pacifist with questionable style, if you hand me another 38 inch pants again, I will surely punch you in the stomach. Smug shop assistants, you have been warned.

Oakes signing off.