This Tuesday lunchtime I have to buy new shoes for work. I’m feeling particularly tight and because I got over the obsession with everything I wear being really expensive about four years ago, I go in Zara and I go in Office and I go in two or three other mid-range-stroke-crappy shops that sell shoes for £50 to £80.
Unfortunately there is something wrong with all these shoes and I don’t like any of them, and as I’m walking between crappy shops for the fifteenth time trying to convince myself that I like at least one pair, I have the misfortune of going past Hugo Boss. And in the window of Hugo Boss there is a pair of black brogues (half shiny – half mat, if you believe that) and we lock eyes and I just know that I have to take them home. A bit like the Hairy Guy from the gym, if we had actually locked eyes with him and he had shown me even half the affection these shoes are. And here they are:
So I go in and I look for the shoes and I only see them in brown, so I ask some woman and the woman says that they have sold out and maybe I should try their shop on Regent Street and then she walks off, which is extremely unhelpful, but to be honest I don’t expect anything better, after all she is a woman as we pointed out and she’s probably on her way to have her legs waxed or she’s suffering from pre-menstrual tension or she just wants to gossip about celebrities with her girlfriends whilst stuffing Maltesers in her mouth, or whatever it is that women do.
So I leave the shop thinking that I’m strong enough to forget about these shoes, but it turns out I’m not, I need to go back and hand over my £180 and take them home. So I ring Scott and discuss what my options are and then I go back in the shop armed with new confidence and determined to make their lives hell.
Unfortunately the woman that I have a grudge against isn’t there anymore and the unfortunate shoe salesman who has to deal with me is some thin French guy in his early 20s with overly gelled hair and something that aims to be a beard. So I ask for the shoes and I get the same response and then I ask him to go and check the ones in the window (I have all the answers now) and he instantly says that he thinks they are a size 9 and I tell him to check anyway and he comes back and says they are a size 11 and then I ask him to call up Regent Street and ask whether they have my size, because I’m not going all the way there for nothing.
So he gets on some computer, supposedly to check all the stock in stores around the UK, but in actual fact I suspect he’s surfing Perez Hilton or A Comme des Garcons, because 18 minutes later I haven’t had an answer. Then his supervisor comes near (an English guy with thinning hair and buck teeth) so I choose this point to tell the French guy that I’ve been in the store for about half an hour and are we getting there yet. Then the English guy takes over and he’s about 27% more competent than the French guy (which brings his competence level to 29%) and about 10 minutes later he has tracked down a pair of size 8 black brogues in the Manchester store and he orders them for me and tells me they will be here in 2 weeks. Then I tell him that I can’t wait 2 weeks, I need to have them before Christmas (I don’t know why really, I’m not even gonna wear them before Christmas but I just want to make their lives a bit more difficult) so I’m sorry, I don’t want them after all and then he rings up Manchester again and everyone agrees I will have my shoes on Friday.