The torture of women’s clothes shopping

Clothes shopping
Clothes shopping

That whooshing sound you sometimes hear isn’t your blood being pumped through your body, it’s time accelerating like a getaway car at a bank robbery.

The last time I looked it was 2002 and our children were very small. The clothes we bought for them generally had pictures of Disney characters printed on them.

In fact, the last item of clothing I had a hand in purchasing for daughters #1 and #2 were High School Musical cheerleaders outfits complete with pom poms.

Things are very different now. The other week the boss and daughter #1 trawled the internet to find a dress for her school leavers’ prom this summer. Despite the internet being the biggest shop in the world, there was nothing either thought acceptable.

Eventually common sense prevailed when daughter #1 suggested she should rent a dress for the night as she’d probably never wear it again anyway.

That’s a very good idea and it is one I’ll let the boss and daughter #1 sort between them because, as far as most men are concerned, when you’ve seen one dress, you’ve seen the lot.

Even accidentally overhearing wives and daughters shopping on the internet in the next room is enough to switch men’s brains into neutral, never mind the horrors of trailing behind them for hours around a city centre or shopping mall. Never mind torturing suspected terrorists with death metal played at ear-splitting volumes at all times of the day and night, just force them to follow a gaggle of women in their family in and out of every clothes shop in a city centre for a few hours while pretending to look interested – I guarantee they’ll crack and tell you where the training camp is, the list of potential targets and the location of every sleeper cell within 20 minutes.

And anyway, what’s all this about proms when you leave school, like it’s some sort of achievement? School is like Logan’s Run, once you reach a certain age that’s you finished. Even if you spent Mondays to Fridays from Reception to Year 11 eating crayons, you’ll leave school on the same day as the brainiac who got 10 A* at GCSE.

Still, any excuse for a party and smuggling in vodka to yak up in your mate’s handbag at midnight.