Shopaholics know how to get what they want

Press, 28 September 1988, Page 16

Shopaholics know how to get what they want

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My mother and sister are on a long-overdue holiday to Sydney. Unlike most holiday-makers, however, this trip will not be one of rest and recreation. It will be one of intense shopping, relieved only by brief periods of sleep. Armed to the teeth with a full set of the fantastic plastic, travellers’ cheques, and cold hard cash they will systematically rip through . every store within the inner city in just 10 days. They were under starter’s orders at Christchurch Airport at the ungodly hour of 7.30 a.m., determined not to miss a minute of shopping. On their arrival at the other end they would have quickly checked into their hotel, warmed up their wallets, and roared into the nearest David Jones store. Slogans like “Shop till you drop” and “Those who say they are bored don’t know how to shop” were made for them. It was almost as if my mother groomed my sister from the cradle to take over this great tradition which has been in our family for years. On rare occasions, when my sister is unavailable, 'I have stood in for her and gone shopping with my mother. While I have never developed the same degree of passion for the event I have learnt to walk the streets at a dangerous speed (loitering between shops is a sin) and to assess the stock of any of

20 different stores in the same number of seconds. I am grateful to my mother for passing on these invaluable skills. It must be said, though, that my results are never quite the same as theirs. This is partially due to a previously mentioned lack of taste on my part, and partly because I have not the dedication necessary to find a tiny backwater boutique which specialises in one-off garments which everyone will ooh and aah over. I am most fortunate in that my mother and sister are not selfish shoppers. On the contrary, they may only pick up one or two items for themselves and dedicate the rest of the trip to presents for those of us left behind. I have long suspected that my

mother’s joy on the arrival of my two children was due entirely to the fact that she had two more people to shop for. My brother unwittingly contributed to this fine family tradition by marrying a “shopper extraordinaire.” Julie’s expertise in shopping is legend. When the evening draws in the family often sits around the fire and talks about the time when Julie, finding herself temporarily stranded in Ashburton, managed to find a shop which would sell her a dress on a Sunday. That sort of class is very hard to beat. My mother has rung home a few times during her off-shore shopping sojourn, but she is obviously distracted by what may be going on in the stores

while she is wasting time talking to my father. He makes allowances for her. Being married to a shopper for more than 30 years means you get used to this sort of thing. My mother is nothing if not prepared. Knowing she would have little time for chatty calls back home to issue instructions to my father, she spent a busy two weeks before leaving compiling a handy little “How to Survive” booklet for him. This booklet includes a list of all the television items she wants taped in her absence. Every evening my father sits down with a stiff drink in one hand and the evening’s taping schedule in the other. The booklet also contains instructions for the washing machine (“It’s large and white and lives .in the laundry”) and for the dishwasher (“Crunching sounds should be inspected immediately.”) She will, while travelling between the racks and the dressing room, worry about him. He tends to buy and sell things in her absence. On one memorable shopping trip, just into the city centre, we took his car, leaving hers safely in the garage at home. When we turned into Tuam Street we saw a car which looked very familiar in a car sales yard. Our suspicions were confirmed on closer inspection. It was hers. I can’t wait for my. mother'to come home. I want to be there when my father confesses his latest piece of handiwork.