How to Defeat a Shopaholic at Her Own Game

Last night I found myself attempting to beat box to my family over supper. My sister was my musical sidekick and carried out wild and flailing miming actions. This strange behaviour is not unusual in our family, but this time there was actually some context. We were trying, unsuccessfully, to recreate the mood of our shopping expedition in Manchester on the second Saturday of December when I went to stay with her at university. It was probably one of the most stressful experiences of my life. I am a hard-core shopaholic; I wouldn't make this shit up.

Shopping, for most girls at least, is a kind of ritualistic bonding activity. I'm ashamed on behalf of the sisterhood to admit that I tend to shop better alone, mostly because my unbounded spending power tends to drain others of theirs. My uni housemate regularly got dragged round Leeds city centre in my wake, so from second year on when we'd made more friends, there was a kind of silent agreement that we wouldn't shop together again. It's really only when the shops are closing that I declare I am 'shopped out' - my equivalent of 'tapping out' of a hard fought boxing match: I shop till I drop. Manchester City Centre was one of the toughest matches of my career in the ring, and I was tempted to tap out early on. My sister and I thought it would be a fun, sisterly, girly thing to do to go shopping together. We were MISTAKEN. 

Have you ever thought to yourself that you actually wanted to go shopping because you fancied a pre-night out in prep for the actual night out you still need an outfit for? No, neither have I. Yet every shop we went into had been transformed into a nightclub, complete with DJs; DJs, who also MC'd whilst you rode the escalators. As soon as I stepped into H&M my heart started beating faster, 'Allllriiiight H&M how we doing? Are you ready to get your Christmas presents TODAY?!!' I felt as if I had to grab items in time with the heavy bass that was coursing through my veins; I wouldn't have been surprised to see my pupils had dilated from the adrenaline rush, or to turn and see someone gurning behind me. The effect the music had on us was like some terrible trip. I don't know if the market research behind this atmosphere in shops is that it gets people psyched up into a spending frenzy, but it quite honestly caused me nausea and dehydration. I was mortified to have to take a seat next to the boyfriends and husbands relegated to the soft pleather stools outside the changing rooms to refocus. I wish I had been more spirited and broken into spasming dance moves.

But we ploughed on, not to be defeated. Hope was fairing remarkably well - perhaps because she has a more regular slew of similar nightlife in her weekly student schedule, while I have apparently aged beyond recognition. When we emerged from H&M, empty-handed, the opponent was still dominant. Great tides of humanity swarmed towards us, and we really had to punch and push our way over to Urban Outfitters. It's moments like this when you realise just how many humans there are in the world, and I questioned how many of them were enjoying the consumer experience? A large portion of the human race had certainly descended to give it a try. It was also one of those days were outside it was freezing, but inside any shop I thought I might spontaneously combust from overheating. Luckily I had worn a lot of layers, my other winning fights with the high street had not left me totally unprepared for my greatest challenge yet. 

Topshop was the same as H&M, with worse MCs and even more loaded bass. All I could keep saying was how stressed out I was, and that we could never bring our mother here - she doesn't even know what house music is, but she would have gained a pretty quick and trashy education in it. She might well have been in need of some booze, and maybe some mild drugs to get round the Arndale centre without crying. After 4 hours the only thing I emerged with was my work Secret Santa present: a book from Waterstones entitled 'Baking Bad' for my Walter White loving colleague.

 Since that fateful day I've been asking who on earth thought shoppers would be turned on by all of this sensory overload? Obviously no one can stop people descending on a city centre on a December Saturday, and I'm sure the shops still have their best turnovers on the weekend - but the experience only pissed me off. If there was ever a method in getting people not to buy stock, this would be it. There should be a sense of excitement and a gradual but unexpected build up, climaxing in the thrill of the purchase, not the sense that you're in a rush, it was distinctly average and all over too fast, leaving you with nothing but a faulty item and empty regret (I apologise for the innuendo). The big High Street names can rely on the fact that their products are cheap and cater for the masses, and so people will always buy, but no brand should rely on this and must continue to welcome its entire range of customers. Just like the music chosen can exclude and isolate, so does this approach. Trying to be young and hip will alienate mums shopping with their daughters, or just grumpy old women like me. I thought I was the Mohammed Ali of shopping, but even he was eventually beaten.