Whilst I sit here in my sweet little market pitch full of jolly books enjoying the peace and quiet that only a recession brings - thankyou boys, just what I needed.. the chance to rest my feet and stay poor - Jon is running around at the bookshop trying to do nineteen different things as well as keep Arkwright's till from biting his fingers every time he goes in for a pound coin.
As it is so quiet, I slipped away yesterday to meet my Aunty Reet in Croydon and the empty aisles in Debenhams, strung hopefully with Christmas jumpers positively sparkling with static, were spooky. It was like an episode of Survivors. But without the jokes.
Naturally, I made a complete fool of myself by buying a six zone ticket for the tram from Beckenham - the sun was shining directly on the screen.. It was! - and then, once in store, so distracted was I by the surfeit of shimmering PRODUCTS, I blindly tried to go up the down escalator. The bored security guard was very nice about it. Apparently old dears do it all the time.
Finally, suffocating under the weight of my winter garb, I found the restaurant and my aunt and sister and nephew with the place to themselves. The baby boy was sweating and I stripped off, practically to my vest. And we were all gasping for something to drink. Imagine how hot it must get during an economic boom. Meanwhile, in the near distance, gondolas loaded with twinkling decos, bundles of bathtowels, PJs and Simpsons mugs remained untroubled by purchase, breakage or theft.
Eventually, too parched to sit there any longer inspite of the various beverages, and maddened by Slade, we swapped gifts and cards as planned and kissed our dear aunt, the last link to our mum, goodbye and stepped out into the cavernous shopping centre where it was so dead we could have done cartwheels. If we hadn't got so many bloody clothes on.
Outside, where there is sky, the cold clobbered us instantly.
Back at the cosy covered market, the weather beyond the swing doors is as dodgy as our prospects but inside we are warm. The playlist has worked a treat and with two floors of stalls where you can get anything from tea cups to bathmats, olive oil to bath oil, gloves to paper doves, it strikes me that we have our very own department store here. Only with no Simpsons tankards, and you don't get an electric shock off everything you touch. Oh, and Keith has just walked in with a pint for everyone from the boozer across the road. Bet the staff in Debenhams are gagging for one of those..
