A pilgrimage to Primark by Emma Kreft
There’s no better way to spend a Sunday morning than training it to the centre of Liverpool, to queue an hour round the block of a bargain clothes shop. I got slightly wet while I was waiting actually, but no fearsome downpour was going to stand in my way of a hundred rails of cheap and cheerful garments, no siree. This morning, be it rain or shine, I was gagging for a bargain.
By the time I got in I had tried in a vain attempt to have a chat with the girls standing in front of me and behind me in the queue. After all, we were all in this together. We were all dismissing sofa-sitting to brave the miserable rain in town; to adorn our feminine frames with new clothing. We all woke up this morning with the same dream. The dream of having, by nightfall, an entirely new wardrobe for less than £50. The dream of successfully swooping in on that one wanted garment, just as the competition descends from an adjoining aisle, like a vulture. The dream of making the purchase that breeds a deep, long-awaited feeling of self-satisfaction - the kind that simply doesn’t come from working a day-job.
I wanted to know who they were, these fellow hunters; where they’d come from. I wanted to ask what they wanted from the store and how much they were planning to spend, and whether they’d still be there if it was a two hour queue instead of one. But alas, alack, one was mute. Her eyes were fixed intently on the door, hands gripping the railings to ensure her place in line was public knowledge. She had no time for niceties, no spare second for small talk. She had her strategy to plan. The other said a quick “I think it’s opening soon,” and then re-attached herself to her iPod while gazing dreamily at a £12 smock in the window. Disappointing, but I understood.
When the doors opened it was chaos. Women of all shapes and sizes grabbed the mesh baskets and threw themselves into racks of clothing, tearing at the colourful items like savage pit bulls as their boyfriends and bemused male partners lingered behind near the doorway. It was evolution reversed. Women were the hunters, men the mere helpers, with credit cards and wheelie cases at the ready. The scene was a picture. The women were Desperate. Hungry. Obsessed. I was glad I’d had a medium Prêt latte in the queue. It gave me the power I needed to reach the £8 grey cardigan in size 14 before the beep behind me could attack.
In the end I came away with two dresses, two belts, two sets of trainer socks, a five pack of knickers, a t-shirt, a denim skirt, two pairs of footless tights, a cardigan, one small shoulder bag and a large aqua-marine handbag perfect for interviews, and only a marginal dent in my pride for the grand total of £57.
