Sale.
A four letter word, guaranteed to send most people of my gender into a tizzy, and their male counterparts into a paroxysm of utter gloom, their grimaces barely concealed by the watery smiles they manage to write on their faces.
But you can hardly blame them.
The women, I mean.
After all, why wouldn’t they? That alluring lime-colored dress that had been making them go weak in the knees for months, and which was almost as addictive as looking at dishy Clooney in the Omega full-page advert, with genuine avarice in the eyes, is up for grabs.
At an unbeatable price slash.
One would be a fool to let go of such an alluring offer.
So why wouldn’t that make them put on their trainers, and make a beeline to the morning queue outside the store, where a number of other like-minded women had decided to make a mad sprint to, too?
Inside, the scene is nothing short of a war, where women of all shapes and sizes sweat it out to get that last wine-colored bolero jacket, the tan waistcoat, those charcoal-grey flannel trousers…
There is no time to waste over phone calls – so any calls received are done so in under thirty seconds – a record of sorts. Unless of course the caller in question has called with news of another discount in the vicinity, in which case the phone call is attended to with the utmost reverence…
Amid jostling, cussing, eyebrow-raising, and the odd stepping on one another’s toes, when one emerges with the garment / object of contention, it is nothing short of a victory.
And the look upon your colleague / acquaintance when you smugly show her the winning article – priceless, to say the least….
No comments:
Post a Comment