Monday, July 25, 2011

Reason number 25 why I hate shopping centres.

I'm not entirely certain if I really do have 25 reasons or if I picked the number. But the fact stands that I don't like shopping centres much.

They are the noisy hubris of consumerism and white tiles. There's rarely enough natural light, and signs encroach on your personal space, screaming "purchase me!!!!". I think that my main problem with them is the noise and the amount of people.

It's probably another trait that either Max picked up from me or I picked up from Max. Large groups of people set me on edge, that is all. I'll deal with crowds, but extended exposure is headache material.

This morning was no different.

I had a form to drop off in Charlestown Square - (one of the biggest shopping centres in Newcastle). For some, it's no biggie. I sit down with my map, plan the route there, make adjustments on the way and eventually arrive intact.

I look for more directions to get to the office and begin to head that way, until a lady with a curling iron jumps in the way.

The writing style will change here for effect. I present:

An open letter to the lady with the curling iron:

Dear Rebecca,
You are definitely of the go-getting nature. From the start, I could tell with the way that you invaded my space and saw through my social-invisibility field. Perhaps I shouldn't have worn my Van Gogh shirt today. You were so happy to talk, and talk you did. You glazed over my point of saying I was on a mission and got me to sit, demonstrating the use of the thing in your hands on my hair. I don't know many people who could talk as fast as you, and your thick Spanish accent made coherency a hard thing for me.
One minute we were talking about nuances and artistry and the next you were placing a box in my hands and telling me that I could get it cheaply for $200 or so. You continued to roll over my comments until I spoke clearly enough for your commission-driven voice to comprehend what I was saying;
Suddenly you weren't my friend anymore and we parted ways. Maybe if you weren't trying to sell me a product I'd never use or afford we could be friends, but either way you've left my hair looking mighty stupid. The smell of product still clings to it and I think that next time I walk past your stall I'll stick my phone onto my ear and walk faster, because all desire to explore Newcastle for the week has evaporated, thanks to this two timing friend/sell deal. If you wanted my money, it would have been easier to say so from the beginning.



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