Well, I suppose this isn’t really the fairest rant. I hate shopping. But my comments today are not about shopping as a pastime (I’ll get to that someday), but about Brent Cross itself.
Firstly, It’s so confusing! The only thing I know is that John Lewis is at one end and Fenwicks is at the other. And I also know HMV is next to Fenwicks. Or is it John Lewis?
Yes, yes, I know: “If you think Brent Cross is big, don’t go to the Harlequin.” Don’t worry, I won’t. And I won’t ever again look at Brent Cross’s maps. They are actually unhelpful.
So besides its rearing vastness and complexity, Brent Cross also poses a problem because it’s so local. Despite being a resentful shopper, I still enjoy having new clothes. So when I finally make it to Brent Cross, armed with a box of biscuits and a scowl, I like to get stuff done. I make my usual stops: H & M, Zara and Topshop and then mosey on down to HMV to see what DVDs are under £3 today.
Unfortunately, besides the racks of clothes, I also have to wade through various acquaintances I meet between dressing rooms. Each likes to tell me which shops they’ve been to, where’s next on their schedule, what they’re up to at the moment and what they’re cooking for Shabbat. Nightmare.
But still, when I get home, I feel so proud of my two new skirts, new top and shoes. Now I won’t need to shop again for another six months. The problem is, because Brent Cross is right in the heart of North West London, and because all the nice Jewish girls go to the same three stores, when I turn up to shul in my brand spanking new outfit, three other people are wearing it too.
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