Up to St Christopher's Place, where we poke about in clothes shops, and gag at price tags. Into a 'art' gallery/shop - a terrible mishmash of daubs, mainly chocolate-box erotica (misty eyed nudes in loft apartments), and cloying sentiment (children with trembling lips). I feel free to comment, because the member of staff is safely behind the counter, over the other side of the shop. Unfortunately there are TWO members, and I haven't noticed the other one, who is sitting quietly on a stool about a metre away from me. Whoops. We leave quickly. It's an awkward dynamic when a shop is small. There's none of the anonymity you get when you wander into a big high street outlet, where nobody notices whether you're there or not. There's a tension. Are you going to buy or not? Is there going to be conversation? I often know, within seconds of walking in, that there is NOTHING there for me, and I need/want to leave immediately. But convention constrains me to do a full loop around the shop. I feel sleeves, pick up books, have a sage look at a label. All bollocks. All a game. Just waiting until I can decently walk out, leaving the impression that the shop is full of lovely things, and perhaps I may come back. Sometimes, I am even cowardly enough to ask 'What time do you shut today?', to add to this impression (but actually just to oil my exit route).
That's normally when I feel bad for the shop owner. I don't today. Anyone who peddles this sort of terrible shit is more to be punished than pitied.
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