They were all Yellow

I genuinely believe I'm becoming allergic to shopping. When Catherine and I go away for the weekend we usually get the Monday off work too. It's like an extra break before going back to work and you get a four day working week into the bargain.

This Monday we went to Horrorgate to shop for clothes.

I understand the shopping thing I really do. Me and my mate Simon were discussing it a while ago and we agreed that our lunchtime internet trawl to find new and exciting outdoor gear was similar to the same way people shop for clothes and shoes.

Who are we to decry someone for owning 30 pairs of shoes that may have been worn once (or less), when between us we own 84 tents (give or take). The thrill of waiting for delivery of a new sleeping bag to add to the collection (but this one's 5 grammes less!!!) is a joy that only an outdoor gear shopping geek can understand... but the concept of shopping.... of *new* stuff is understandable.

But....

That's what the internet was invented for.

There's a country out there somewhere where a size of 30R pants and a 38S jacket is the same size in every shop.

The. Same. Size. In. Every. Shop.

Unfortunately it's not the UK so you're forced to endure the hell that is High Street Shopping. And then for some strange reason instead of leaving at the earliest possible opportunity, you *have* to get coffee!!!

I realised on Monday that I'm actually allergic to the High Street. It's not meant for the likes of me. I'm a jetsetting go-getter. I know what I want. I juggle an important career that balances the lives of thousands in one hand, while I maintain a small country of orphans with the other. I don't have time to dawdle while someone *browses*. If I have to go to the High Street I want to go to the rack, pick up some 30R's knowing that they'll fit me perfectly, walk along a *wide* aisle to my checkout assistant, pay and go. Job done.

But not for me. No. When I head into the High Street, the CCTV zones in on me. It sends a signal to the Head Office of High Street Hellmakers, where a guy called Maximus Harrasicus alerts his henchmen;

"At my signal! Unleash Hell!"

And so it begins...

The aisles shrink, the lights double in brightness, the aircon stops, the people walking in front of me stop... suddenly... in an aisle. I look left... it's blocked... I look right and it's clear... I move but suddenly a rack of clothes appears being pushed by an unruffled assistant (to Maximus), and it stops. Can I go up? I look up but the new style lighting that's like 300 football stadium spotlights tears into my retinas with all the mercy of a swarm of wasps that think you're made of jam....

I blipped some yellow flowers in Harrogate. Then I cried a bit.