THIS ISLAND LIFE
CONTRARY to the popular image of most men in the bus-pass age group, I am not averse to a bit of shopping.
I’m quite content to act as a pack mule for my wife and/or daughter as they traipse around various emporia — mostly of the clothing variety.
It presents plenty of people-watching opportunities and on more than one occasion complete strangers have asked me to arbitrate on their choice of garment.
Tact has never been one of my strong points but I have learned the hard way it never pays to come between a woman and her opinion on clothes, especially those she intends to buy.
But for some reason, two women together sometimes feel the need to seek out a man’s view — and if their own is not available they will recruit the nearest available option.
Thus it was in M&S a couple of years ago that a sturdy woman of middle years invited me to scrutinise her nether regions.
She had been involved in a whispered debate with her friend over the suitability of a skirt, when she suddenly turned to me (my wife was in the changing-room and blissfully unaware of the encounter) and asked the question every man dreads: "Do you think this makes my backside look big?"
I desperately wanted to reply: "No. It’s your backside that makes your backside look big." But I swallowed the urge, affected a studious pout and slowly shook my head.
She bestowed upon me a grateful smile before turning to her friend and trilling a triumphant: "See!"
There is, however, one store I will never enter again as long as I possess the mental wherewithal to make my own decisions. I refer, of course, to Ikea.
My daughter lured me over there the other week. "You’ll like it," she said. "It’s … uh … different."
I have an intense dislike of Argos, because of all the palaver involved in flicking through catalogues, queuing up, ordering and standing there like a zombie waiting for your number to appear on the screen.
But purchasing something in Ikea is such a convoluted and regimented process, it makes Argos look like a village store. You need GCSEs in ergonomics and geography before daring to set foot in the place.
Firstly you traipse around the showroom, which is the size of a small country. There are arrows all over the floor to ensure you do not stray from the pre-ordained path.
I was frightened to backtrack lest a Swedish policeman suddenly appeared from nowhere and booked me for loitering without intent to buy.
The place is like a giant playhouse for adults and all around people squat opposite each other at kitchen tables, sprawl on beds and bounce backwards and forwards in rocking-chairs.
Round every bend (of which there are many) employees lurk in vile costumes of acid yellow and blue but the reason for their presence is not immediately apparent because customers are expected to do all the work.
Having spotted a potential purchase, you are provided with a pencil and piece of paper, upon which you scrawl the number of the aisle and item.
Then it’s down to the actual store, where you follow the arrows once more until you locate said item.
Then comes the rigmarole of paying for it and getting your parking ticket validated by one of the blue-and-yellow legions.
If this is not done, you cannot escape from the car park. But it’s far too complicated for some idiots, who reach the barrier, find themselves trapped and saunter off to seek help while the rest of us wait in fuming queues.
And don’t get me started on the cafeteria. It appears to have a menu specially designed to ensure people do not eat there.
Ikea? Never, ever again, thank you very much.
The customer service that needs recycling
BRIAN 'Grumpy’ Greening’s recent rant against the regime at the civic amenity site ('dump’ to you and me) at Forest Road, Newport, has struck several chords.
Other people have also noticed the preposterous 'health and safety regulations’ in force there and the surly attitude of some members of staff.
Mrs Anita Lees, of Wroxall, was so amused after one visit she was moved to verse. Space prevents me from reproducing her efforts but I’m happy to provide you with the gist.
Having been informed they couldn’t dump a bit of plasterboard at Lynnbottom tip one weekend, she and her husband drove to Forest Road — only to be told that such a specialised commodity could only be dealt with during the week.
Back they went a few days later, to be confronted by a stroppy jobsworth in his little booth, who demanded name, address, telephone and vehicle registration number.
At one point he became agitated because he couldn’t hear the telephone number and threatened to summon his supervisor.
The farce with the wearing of the fluorescent jacket ensued, the piece of plasterboard was weighed, no payment was required and a pink sheet of paper duly issued.
Anita wrote: "My husband and I sat there like naughty little schoolkids, not knowing what to say next — and we were so glad to get out of there.
"Please tell Mr Greening we know exactly how he felt!"
Perhaps the general manager at Island Waste Services should consider recycling some of his staff.
Rubbish is what they deal with — and should not necessarily describe the quality of their customer service.