Preston, I should explain, is my home town. And as many of my family of clothes-obsessed shoppers are still based there, it has been the scene of much thoughtless female frittering, the fruits of which are currently clogging up my shelves. It is an undistinguished looking Northern mill town belted by ring roads (an American friend stopping off there en route for Scotland once phoned me in horror: "I'm in your home town. Was it really badly bombed in the War?" No, I had to tell her. We did all that ourselves), but it is on the borders of some of the most beautiful scenery in the North of England. It's handy for the Lake District; right on the doorstep of the Forest of Bowland; within striking distance of the Yorkshire Dales. Many Prestonians use this to the full - they spend their leisure time heading North to romp in our great national parks. We head the other way to queue in the carparks of the great retail outlet parks. In fact when my family go up to the Lakes, we often don't get much further than the giant Lakeland Plastics superstore at Windermere.
So it was with some caution that StopShop stepped off the train at Preston railway station last weekend, accompanied by teenage daughter. The official reason for the trip was to see the folks and hand over (and hopefully receive) Christmas booty, but I have never been up there and not come back with a bag full of bargains. For StopShop a weekend in Preston would be like running over hot coals. Sadly we arrived with time to spare. Hmmm. Where IS there to wile away an hour or so close to the station? I know Primark and TK Maxx. Brilliant!
Primark and I have a vexed relationship. On so many levels I disapprove of it - some of them ethical but most of them aesthetic. The minute I step into the store I become all designery and fey - twirling a virtual green carnation and looking down my nose. Not quite comme il faut, don't you know. All that viscose. Hard to explain, then, that almost every bra I own comes from Primark. If I get knocked over by a car, the paramedics will think my name is Secret Possessions. No surprise then, that within ten minutes of leaving the train I was being restrained by my daughter from buying yet another pair of cotton flannel pyjamas (in the cutest black and white polka dots and only FIVE POUNDS!!!). "Mum, StopShop means not shopping, remember?"
Primark had a strange effect on her too. I love the way she and her friends dress. They have that easy, North London teenage style - layers thrown together seemingly effortlessly. I find artless impossible. When Anna Wintour scornfully derided "matchy matchy" styling a small part of me died. I love matchy matchy. It's like solving a crossword - you know you've got it right. If I wear more than two colours at once I think I look like a crazy lady, with a dog on a string and a shopping trolley full of junk, shouting at passersby and scratching my crotch in public. In order to avoid this, I do perhaps take things a little far: even my underwear matches my outerwear.
But back to Primark. I can only conclude that the mind-altering chemicals in the airconditioning at Primark were particularly concentrated last Friday afternoon in the Preston branch, because the very daughter who was so sneery about the, yes I have to admit, BOLD, shoes I returned last week, was soon rifling through the racks trying to find her size in a polyester fleece all in one pyjama cow suit, (complete with feet, pink belly, hooves and a hood with a cow face).
Later we were in my mum's house, exchanging Christmas presents. In her prime my mum was to shopping what Kenya is to marathon running - a woman so dedicated to bargains she is prepared to jab her feet into any shoes from size 3 to size 6 1/2 - keeps her options open on the sale racks. Technically I think she's a size 5. I don't get to see her feet very often but I imagine that by now they look like the inside of a lava lamp.
You would think that being the eldest daughter of such a shopping superstar would reap dividends at Christmas. Reader you would be wrong. My mother has long seen Christmas as the perfect opportunity to offload some of the more glaring shopping mistakes she has made in previous years. Attempts to return items to the store from which they purport to come, usually attract a crowd of shop assistants to view them. "My goodness. I remember those. Didn't we have those five years ago? Fetch May from the staff room, she's been here the longest. May, come and see what this woman's brought in...."
One Summer my mother called me to complain about some silk pyjamas she'd had someone bring back from Hong Kong. She'd been imagining Katherine Hepburn. She'd ended up with Bruce Lee. What a laugh we had about the nasty things - how badly they fit, how low they hung in the crotch, the lurid colour, the giant golden dragon . "Just give them away" I remember suggesting, wiping tears of hilarity from my eyes..... Guess what I unwrapped that Christmas morning?
So the trepidation I felt last Friday when she handed me my Christmas parcel was considerable. Mum hadn't done her usual pre Xmas call to ask me what I want. That meant she'd gone completely off piste. Then she told it me it was just my kind of thing and my heart sank. Mum hasn't really understood "my thing" since we argued about me growing my fringe out twenty years ago. It must be something to wear. Clearly she hadn't consulted my sister (who has very good taste) either - damn!
Here it is:
So it's off to M&S for me, to send the staff on a trip down Memory Lane. Not that they'll own up to it. The Per Una label is suspiciously slashed - the true sign of an Outlet buy, and there are no other visible labels. Hmm. I'd better just give it away. Watch out all of you. If you're a size 10 and enjoy looking like you've been coloured in with Sharpies, it could be heading your way!
No comments:
Post a Comment