The world is in recession and for once, Britain leads the way. At the last count the nation was worth £3.28p plus a few pesetas left over from the holiday. The Queen has even summoned the Governor of the Bank of England to ask him what's left in her piggy bank. Brokers are jokers, bankers are wankers, butchers are selling entrails and charity shops are re-branding as chic boutiques.
But there may be an upside. What we are seeing is a commercial revolution. A well-known shirt shop whose shirts usually sell at £65-£85 suddenly announced that all their stock was for sale at £19 per shirt. I'd never been in the store before, assuming that you had to be a member of their gentleman's club to shop there. Woo-Hoo! I was lording it round there, tossing shirts around with gay abandon. OK - I was looking at sizes way too small but as I said to the lackey who tried to direct me to the bull-neck section, I was just checking patterns out before thinking about a purchase.
With the sharks circling, I ambled over to the 17 inch collar shirts. Foolishly, I reached out to touch one. Smelling blood, an assistant moved in. "What is your arm length Sir?" Resisting the temptation to reply that it runs from my shoulder to my wrist I muttered something about 'regular'. "Double cuff or button?" "Chest pocket or plain?" "Stiff collar or soft?" Treating these questions like annoying flies I waved them away and set off for the charity shop where they sell shirts without sharks!
But there may be an upside. What we are seeing is a commercial revolution. A well-known shirt shop whose shirts usually sell at £65-£85 suddenly announced that all their stock was for sale at £19 per shirt. I'd never been in the store before, assuming that you had to be a member of their gentleman's club to shop there. Woo-Hoo! I was lording it round there, tossing shirts around with gay abandon. OK - I was looking at sizes way too small but as I said to the lackey who tried to direct me to the bull-neck section, I was just checking patterns out before thinking about a purchase.
With the sharks circling, I ambled over to the 17 inch collar shirts. Foolishly, I reached out to touch one. Smelling blood, an assistant moved in. "What is your arm length Sir?" Resisting the temptation to reply that it runs from my shoulder to my wrist I muttered something about 'regular'. "Double cuff or button?" "Chest pocket or plain?" "Stiff collar or soft?" Treating these questions like annoying flies I waved them away and set off for the charity shop where they sell shirts without sharks!
I wonder if they had a German branch would you be able to buy a Herr Shirt :o)
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