shopping

When I visited my sister last week, I saw a sticker over her roommate's bathroom mirror that I found quite funny. It said, "A whole closet full of nothing to wear", describing, as I understand it, the drama every fashion-conscious woman faces when going out. Tomorrow, I'll face a similar drama. I'm invited to a friend's wedding, and I have nothing to wear. And while my closet is full of clothes, most of them are good for the lab and the park only. They're old and worn, and there's nothing remotely formal. A few months ago I threw out my only sports coat because it looked like I had wrestled it off the hobo roughing it in front of Hammersmith tube station.

I had known of this wedding for weeks and of the deplorable state of my wardrobe for much longer, yet I had not taken action. Chronic shoppophobia is what holds me back. Now, the afternoon before my colleague's big day, I couldn't delay it any further. I left work early to dedicate a few hours to the Westfield, the huge shopping mall, all shiny and new, right next to where I live.

The first figure eight on the ground level did raise my spirits. I went into a few shops and saw a few suits I liked and a few jackets I could combine with any of the many khakis I own. None of the sizes matched my body, and I left each shop empty-handed, but I did so in an optimistic mood.

At some point, I entered the House of Fraser, mainly to recharge in their café, which splendidly overlooks the plaza framed by the entrances to the shopping center and the train and the tube stations. People enter and exit constantly, buses come and go every minute, and there is great bustle. Watching this human anthill from two floors up, with a cappuccino and a lemon cheese cake handy, is quite an experience, very soothing in its distance.

When I got there, the café had just closed. The tables were being wiped for the night and the curtains drawn. I turned around and saw a sign to the menswear department – in a store I had never entered before. I gave it a chance, saw a bunch of blazers I liked and was spotted by Ebenezer who, in spite of his name, had a cheerful disposition and was happy to help. He was also, by virtue of being one entire head shorter than me, truly empathetic to the difficulties I face when shopping. I never find the right size. Everything is always too big.

Not here. Ebenezer found the right size, it fit, and it looked good. I was happy, and ready to make a purchase. But instead of just taking my money, Ebenezer had me apply for a store card ("Get 10% off extra."), which, in a lengthy process of divulging information that should better remain private, turned into a credit card. I went along, not only without complaints, but eagerly because no one had offered me a credit card in the UK, and I could really do with one. Had I known what would come, I would have slapped down my humble debit card as fast as possible, grabbed the blazer and made for the exit.

Instead, while I signed the card application form, the fire alarm erupted in a fierce wail. That meant evacuation, orderly overall, though there were moments approaching panic. There was no time to hand over my money, and the the blazer stayed by the till while everyone left the store.

I came back half an hour later, after having finally found nourishments in one of the surprisingly few coffee shops in the mall. Ebenezer was still there, as were my blazer-to-be and my credit card application form. The form had my signature on it already and the blazer, I noticed with considerable shock, a squiggle created when the pen was dropped right before the evacuation. A short but spirited discussion ensued about the seriousness of the blemish, the extra discount it would take to make me still buy it, and alternative locations of availability of an unspoiled item. "We have one at our Oxford Street store." With the wedding only half a day away, a trek across town was out of the question.

Annoyed about wasted time and opportunity, I hurried on. The entire upper level of the mall remained to be explored. I got to a suit store where I found yet another sports coat I liked. I tried it on. It felt ok, but a bit loose. I was confused, and lost without an expert style guide by my side. That's where Waleed the overbubbling salesperson came into play, all smiles and professional exuberance. "This is fantastic. You look great in it. Fits perfectly. Awesome." I wasn't convinced but I needed a jacket.

I got in line to pay but was rescued, in a way, by Prakash, another salesperson who descended on me with his helpfulness when it was almost too late. When Waleed wasn't looking, I posed the same question about the suit. It seemed ok to him, but when I pressed him about the size, he wiggled my shoulders and checked my waist and declared I needed to go to an expensive gym. He deplored he didn't have any smaller sizes and didn't know where to send me. I didn't know either. After three hours in the mall, I had exhausted all the options. I have a wedding to attend tomorrow, and I still have nothing to wear.