‘So, I’ll meet you back at Starbucks at six o’clock?’
‘Brilliant. See you then.’
I don’t mind going shopping with girls. That is, as long as I don’t actually have to go shopping with them. I’m down with the idea of splitting the cab fare and having someone to chat to over coffee once the materialistic deeds are done, but the whole idea of being hauled through 700 different shops looking for a single belt (a red one, not too wide – but not too thin – with a silver buckle but not sequins) fills me with a special kind of dread.
So, upon visiting Marina Mall with my friend recently, I devised a cunning plan. We’d both go our separate ways, then meet up in two hours’ time to compare purchases and neck a grande macchiato. During which time I’d have picked up my new trainers (white Converse, size nine, just like the last pair) and the audio cables I need from Plug-Ins and still find half an hour to slam a couple of Big Macs in the food court, while she flits from shop to shop like an Amex-toting hummingbird, trying on endless garments before deciding she’s too fat and smothering her sorrows in Baskin Robbins.
Except, in reality, it didn’t quite go down like that. Malls, you understand, are terrifying, inescapable labyrinths. Just like Las Vegas casinos, they’re pumped full of cold air to keep your brain at optimum, wallet-flexing alertness and are strategically devoid of clocks, meaning punters often don’t realise how long they’ve been shopping until they get an irate call from their boss telling them not to bother coming into the office tomorrow morning because it’s Wednesday and they were supposed to be back at work six days ago. Worst of all, though, the designers of the city’s vast retail palaces have found a way to distort the space-time continuum, so that, short of feigning a heart attack and waiting for some nice men to stretcher you out, there’s no way of escaping the places. Every corner, every escalator and elevator leads to yet more mannequins, a flock of children and usually a Cinnabon.
Sure, you could give one of those flashy touch-screen maps a go, but that involves running the risk of having a tech-savvy 12 year old sidling up next to you and, with just a few prods of their chocolatey mitts, showing you up for the directionless buffoon you are.
I did eventually find my way to Starbucks (via three information desks and a friendly sales assistant in Zara who turned out to not actually work there), arriving 15 minutes late for our arranged rendezvous. I hadn’t bought a thing, of course. But at least my friend was easy to spot – she was the one sporting two fistfuls of shopping bags and an incredibly satisfied grin.
David Clack is our Music & Nightlife editor. At least we think he is, he went to the mall three days ago and we haven’t seen him since
