Myself and Herself have a tradition for her birthday. We take the day off work, go into town, have a boozy lunch and then go squiffy-shopping. Shopping while a bit tiddly is what late-stage capitalism is all about: it makes everything feel debauched and meaningless, though the alcohol has a practical function too. It separates Herself from her inner Mennonite, who normally would be appalled at this wanton waste of vouchers on handbags or over-priced shoes; and it helps me stuff down the urge I always have in a high-end department stores. I want to yell: don’t you see how silly this is?
It’s the atmosphere. There’s a church-like reverence, mixed with a not inconsiderable dash of smugness. The shoppers here aren’t mere customers, but part of an elite, all of them effortlessly wonderful, magnetically drawn to a shop where you can pay a thousand euro for a T-shirt.
Yet they don’t seem to take much joy in this. Everyone looks a bit serious. Everyone looks like they got dressed up to come here; though (I assume) the idea is to communicate that they look like this all the time: that their lives are continually fabulous, all taking place on a higher plane of existence.
I always wonder who these people are. Because you never see them anywhere else. I’m tempted to think there’s some sort of secret underground railway, with stops at Brown Thomas and Harvey Nichols, that shoots them all back to the protective embrace of Donnybrook or Dalkey, free from the polluting influence of the vulgarian hordes.
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The only other place where you might experience this kind of snootiness is in a restaurant, though that’s not universal. I’ve eaten in Michelin-star places that were genuinely relaxed and welcoming, and others so pleased with themselves you’d suspect they wanted the customers to serve them the food.
Still: restaurants are also good for gawking at people and wondering who they are. Herself’s most recent birthday was on a Monday, a day when many eateries are closed, so we were a bit limited in our choices. We ended up in a place that had a few notions, which might have been annoying had we not become distracted by the table next to us.
Other people are so interesting. Especially when you don’t know anything about them
There were five people. They didn’t seem to know each other that well. Based on how they were dressed and what we could eavesdrop, the only woman was perhaps an academic. Gender studies or sociology. There was a man with a sonorous voice who had the bang of someone who worked in the theatre. There was a middle-aged American, who didn’t say that much but looked wealthy, and who was accompanied by a much-younger American who was either his son or (Herself’s theory), his lover. The fifth person to arrive looked like a writer and, their conversation revealed, had written a book. Something to do with trauma.
Yet at no point did their chat reveal what they were there for. Our best working hypothesis was that the writer had written a play about trauma which the man with the deep voice would direct. The academic was consulting on the work for historical accuracy while the American was providing the finance. He was doing this because he was formerly an international arms dealer but was now trying to atone for his sins by funding arts projects around the world. He would also, at some point, insist that his lover, who has acting ambitions, be given a part.
If, in the next year or so, you read about a theatre production that deals with something traumatic and features a terrible performance from a young American actor, you heard about it here first. Or they were stamp collectors. Or the lunch was an ice-breaker before they all went off to an orgy.
Other people are so interesting. Especially when you don’t know anything about them.