Bozo BoJo and his band of Monty Python advisors have spoken – come 15th June non-essential shops can dust off their Spring/Summer wear and rev up the tills, as long they keep to stiff control-the-virus rules. Easy peasy – we in Blighty love rigid regulations. If you’re a tad worried about not being able to see the perspex divides and two-metre floor markings clearly – a jaunt up the M1 for some fortress spotting is well advised.
It goes without that hand sanitiser will be pumped through the sprinkler systems and poised security guards, armed with detergent, will hose you down before you can get your teetering-on-climax purse through the retailers’ doors.
Numbers are limited though, not all of you Louboutin-thirsty credit-card-swipers will be allowed in. After twelve weeks of lockdown – and only suffering Amazon, Ocado, or the odd expedition to Tesco Metro to score ya purchase fix, and tame your retail habit – there’s no doubt the UK public will check-in with their neighbours, family, and compadres to see who will be tottering off down to Regent Street on Monday 15th so not to overcrowd. Picture the Battle of the Morannon in the final Lord Of The Rings flick – imagine handbags and buggies in place of swords and stallions. It’s gonna be a Balenciaga-blood-bath.
No changing rooms, loos, or latte pit stops. With the stampede of deprived shoppers flocking to Oxford Street mid-June, taking away their ability to try on in privacy is not going to prevent hardened fashionistas and clothes hoarders from slight-of-torso – and every other body part – TADAH, she’s somehow squeezed into a Maxi on the shop floor. By the time one’s tackled five flights of escalators laden with hostile Sloane-rangers to reach Harvey Nic’s 5th floor, nature’s on speed dial – mops and buckets at the ready. Cafes, shh-mafes.
Prospect-buyers will be discouraged from handling stock, frequently mauled goods will be quarantined for 72 hours and replaced with fresh merchandise. Or, said pawed products must be cleaned before being placed back out on display. Unless we’re enrolling the Army to endure a post at every concession in Selfridges – how’s that going to work? No disrespect to retail-queens (I used to be one), but it’s challenging enough winning their attention to check for your size, grab another colour, or point you in the right direction – Instagram and Bumble bants is far more pressing – never mind rotating groped garments, imprisoning individual items, and fumigating fingered frocks.
Bra-fitting suspended. We’re manhandling avocados, beef tomatoes, and all manner of root-vegetables on our weekly Sainsbury’s run and Waitrose dash – no one’s isolating over-fondled cucumbers. The undies industry needs our support as much as ‘the girls’ do.
Avoiding bloodshed for new a pair of 501’s (which you can’t try on anyway), a distinct aroma of Saturday night once-the-boozers-have-closed street corners, elevenses off the menu, and self-service Babylon housing – wouldn’t you rather head north to view turrets…
