Six months ago, the shops shut their doors abruptly. No more mooching around Zara when I needed a distraction. No more filling a spare 20 minutes in my welcoming local bookshop. Some people embraced it, musing that our lust for shopping was now as dead as a dodo, encouraging others to use the extra time we had at home to cultivate new hobbies and live more simply.
But it fast became clear that I wasn’t going to learn Italian or perfect a sourdough starter, and I missed the joy of browsing the shops. Mindless consumerism might not have a throng of people lining up to defend it, but for many of us, there is an undeniable pleasure in slowly weaving through a department store with your mother, squeezing new cushions and holding dresses up to your body, trying to envisage where you might wear something so flimsy and impractical. There is a lovely quiet satisfaction in discovering a shop full of bric-a-brac and coming away with a little jug or a wicker basket you would never find online. Having those little moments whipped away left a small but noticeable hole in my life.
I looked for something else to take my mind off all the uncertainty. I bought some weedy looking basil from the supermarket and watered it incessantly, moving it around the house trying to find the perfect light to ensure it would thrive. When the critical first few weeks had passed and it became clear that the plant would live, I set about trying to find the perfect pot for it. I spent more time online looking for the right container than I care to admit here. It had to be roomy and have some kind of effective drainage system; ideally it would come with its own saucer for the times I enthusiastically overwatered the poor plant. It must look nice, be sturdy, not cost the earth (I didn’t want to blow cash on a plant which might still wilt and die in my amateur hands). After three weeks, I found a winner: £8 from my local garden centre. It sits on my windowsill and I walk by it several times a day, proud of the tiny thing I grew and found a nice home for.
As this year has alternately trudged and sped forward, I have taken unabashed joy in small acts of consumerism. The way I shop has changed dramatically, but the cheer it brings has not lessened, and I don’t feel guilty about it in the way I used to. I no longer seek a mood boost in fast fashion, partly because we’ve all seen that some of the larger labels have behaved badly towards their workers during this period, and partly because I have nowhere to wear a sequinned jumpsuit or an ill-advised pair of stilettos. I now order from independent local establishments more than ever before, and I order smaller things which actually increase my daily pleasure immeasurably.
You have not known real excitement until you use an electric corkscrew for the first time, opening a cold bottle of white wine in three seconds flat, no crumbling cork or aching shoulder. Buzz it goes, the screw gliding smoothly into the bottle. An invention that we humans do not need or deserve, but one which makes life a tiny bit easier when you want to cry at the endless gloomy headlines and rush to open the bottle with your teeth.
Has my stress psoriasis calmed down since I bought two neon pink candles and watched the bright wax warp over many evenings sat at home? Well, no, but this groundhog life is at least illuminated by a bright pink light now. Does the eyebrow serum I apply last thing before bed make me sleep better? Perhaps not, but my brows are now suitably expressive while I’m dutifully wearing my mask, bushy enough that Groucho Marx would stop me in the street and ask for tips if he was still alive and happened to frequent my favourite coffee shop in Zone 2.
A tiny egg whisk from the hardware store at the end of my road means I bake with ease now, frothing egg whites as I mindlessly watch Selling Sunset at the kitchen counter, making more comfort food to soothe my jittery hands. A handmade cotton eye mask from a one woman sewing operation on Etsy hugs my eyelids tightly as I fall asleep. The best purchase I made recently was a puzzle board for my dog, which confounds him daily, and makes me laugh like a drain.
These are all non-essential purchases, small and irrelevant things that we might buy without thinking in another life. Distractions from the bigger issues that swirl around and make us feel powerless. But now they are appreciated more, these mundane things that I use every day and draw a prolonged satisfaction from now. This year has forced me to accept that I am in control of nothing, despite having spent my entire life trying to shape everything around me in order to dilute my fears. I gain something from these little buys, and it’s not the sugar high of a new top which seeps away as soon as the tags are off. Cable ties to sort out the writhing mass of chargers, a tiny tube of cuticle oil to heal bitten nails, a pair of wool socks with a sheep embroidered on them which I wear in bed. They bring a small comfort that I didn’t know could usurp a dash around the high street.
The shops are open again, and we all need our high streets to survive. At the same time, the way I approach buying things has changed a little. Appreciating what I purchase more, taking pleasure in the practical, and holding on to that buzz for a little longer. Start with a colourful tea towel, work your way up to an electric corkscrew.
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