This week-end I did something so insane I want to murder someone so it could be used in my defense.

I went to Soho. On a Saturday. During the last days of a Maharishi sample sale. With a child.

Shopping in sample sales involves a contract where both parties have signed the following statements:

I, the manufacturer, agree to sell tangled mountains of garments whose grotesque proportions reflect lots of tinkering around on my sewing machine in order to perfect the properly expensive stuff I will be selling you next season.

I, the consumer, agree to spend money I don’t have on the above in the belief I have secured a riotous bargain.

It evokes a single-mindedness, fatigue and dehydration only usually associated with marathon running and is as boring to watch.

It takes place in dimly-lit basements where make-shift changing rooms have been fashioned to provide a safe environment for patrons to deposit the bodily fluids they have created in the searching frenzy.

It’s the only time when people buy clothes without a hint of vanity, bypassing mirrors like demons, in case they are confronted head-on with the hideous purchase they are intent on making.

A sartorial orgy where the big bum question is replaced with ‘How good will this look on my bank statement?’

These 3 overhead comments encapsulate the experience:

‘There are more people in this shop today than all the times I have ever been in here put together.’

‘If this is only £40 then I’m just going to buy it because I won’t wear it much but I do look fucking cool.’

‘Unless you hate this I’m going to get it.’

Still, I did get away with a small crime: a soft top with an outsized hood.



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