Oxford Street is a shopping haven and today I set out to try and get some of this lingering Christmas to-do list out of the way. As usual, gifts for others took a back seat and before I knew it size 7's were slipping themselves onto my frosty feet. Barely 5 seconds after my toes were cushioned like only a 'never-worn-before' boot can do, and one of those attentive/annoying shop assistants who are employed to pummel you with questions and leave you exiting the shop considerably less likely to afford dinner, sidled up to me.
This was a guy, and he was dancing like a heavily sedated 50 year old who only just discovered the use of his limbs. Worse still, it was One Direction playing.
Asking me about the fit, he assured me that if it be too big/too small, it was merely the texture/design/fabric of the shoe and it would loosen/fatten just as I wanted it to. And all for just £25.
I put the shoe back, pleading my ending lunch hour was approaching. He proceeded to compare the flat brown boot I had just tried on and headed to the bright red, lace up heel (which I'm fairly sure the trans-gender prostitute is still looking for..) and advised me of their popularity and practicality.
I told him, while a very nice shoe, I was terrible in heels, and made to leave. Polite, yet subtle? Not so.
This prompted a personal story from his dusty vault (it started with "when I was 12..") in which I learnt the very first time he drove his Dad's car around the back field, he had hit the washing line pole and completely totalled the vehicle. His Dad was furious but understood that it had merely happened because he was only learning (umm, or because he was TWELVE! But what do I know..) So his father had bought him a little Suzuki and taught him in that instead.
Story ends. I am none the wiser about why it was shared, but I'm never going to knock a stranger that shares unnecessary details. Mainly because it casts considerable doubt over their mental stability that you don't want to make worse.
As I felt my cue to leave had arrived (please let that be my cue to leave), he instead thought it was the perfect time to ask me for a drink when he finished work at 8, inviting me to return and accompany him to Winter Wonderland (which he called a "fun fair" and is simply too easy to chastize.)
For some reason, despite the so-called 'romance' of France which translates to frightningly confident Frenchmen, I still haven't quite mastered the 'no'. So as far as this over-zealous shop assistant is aware, I "may be" returning tonight to go on the "spinnies" and eat "handy floss".
What can I say, I was charmed.
No comments:
Post a Comment