i buy, therefore i am
I need to go and lie down in a very quiet darkened room. This morning on the wireless I’ve heard such tosh spoken about a new Westfield shopping mall that I’ve come over all a quiver. Being lauded as some form of national achievement, the John Lewis store was hailed as ground-breaking by one poor misguided fool for having a curved glass frontage. Well I’ll be. Is this what we’ve been reduced to – another giant weather-less, deliberately disorientating, anonymous, social space praised as being the-place-to-be, the new church for today’s shopping-obsessed congregation.
I loathe shopping. I openly admit the failing economy and desolate city centres are both solely my fault as I just don’t spend enough to keep either on their feet. This is not some deep-set profound ideological stance. I like having nice things. I’ve got a nice guitar, a couple actually; a very nice bike, OK several; and don’t get me started on wrist watches. What I do resent though is the idea that shopping is some kind of leisure activity. Shopping, more often than not, is a chore, not a bleeding hobby.
No one talks about materialism any more. The merest whiff of a mention and you’ll be decried as being some joyless do-gooder, a cranky left-winger in a chunky home-knitted and ill-fitting cardi (and, as any serious shopper worth his expensive latte knows, that is soooo last season) with a dog on a string. Don’t we realise that when the going gets tough, the tough go shopping? Aha, shopping for its’ own sake is now our patriotic duty. Irrespective of the fact that we really don’t need that much stuff, this insatiable desire to consume, and conspicuously consume, is constantly stimulated and encouraged. Once upon a time we used to dig for victory, now we shop for it. The designer labels we wear, we do so with the pride of former medals.
Overconsumption however, cruelly backfires on us in every way possible, from debt, to misery, from obesity, to alienation. Scottish song smiths Del Amitri once warned us about ‘Van Gogh’s being snapped up for the price of a hospital wing’ and when a handbag costs as much as a nurse’s salary even the most dedicated amongst us should know this has gone too far. Strangely, all indices of happiness show that reducing consumer choice and spending less bring down anxiety. ‘Retail therapy’ is apparently the last thing we need. Our identities must be created out of something other than what we buy.
