Love it. Saturday morning shopping. I don't do it often because the buzz of shopping has long since faded for me, partly, I suspect that I seem to have reached a shoe impasse (I just don't need them) and a clothes impasse (I just have enough. Possibly for the rest of my life) and one doesn't go shopping for DVDs and CDs anymore on the High Street. My early teen rituals of Woolworths, Boots, HMV, Virgin Megastore, small, independent record shop, WH Smith and Past Times (don't judge me) are no more.
The mecca of Miss Selfridge holds no sway. I'm too old and unutterably uninterested in fashion for High Street clothes shopping and I can't afford (or, most likely, fit into) the things I actually like (Westwood, McQueen et al), so it's charity shops and vintage all the way really.
All of which is tres 2013, but renders a Saturday morning shopping 'outing' pointless. But it's York Resident's Week and, when I was out last night, it snowed softly and steadily, until York was beautiful under a soft carpet of white. I wanted to experience that this morning, rather than sit inside and write and write and write, like some literary badger on a treadmill.
I woke up to a view of gleaming, sugar topped old houses and churches from my bedroom window, frozen in timeless beauty against the true blue of a mid-winter sky. It would just be wrong to not wrap up warm and treat myself to a coffee while wandering round, most likely hallo-ing fellow snow adventurers in manner of Dickens characters on Christmas morning.
I stepped out of my door. Into a foot of grey, noxious mush. A large lady used her buggy as a battering ram, such was her haste to get to Greggs. Teenagers stood, still in hotpants, laconically looking bored. The Minster FM music pumped from round the corner where they have set up a stage on Parliament Street.
I pick my way through puddles of deep, deep slush, wondering all the while how it's possible to be melting so fast but the in between puddles parts are still like sheet ice. A slow, painful crab walk took me to my new estate agents, where I handed over £1,400 for new flat expenses. That only includes the first three weeks rent.
Buying leggings in New Look took an hour, as there were actual squaws (my collective noun for the following) of really rather large ladies, apparently very much from Gateshead, on a big ol' trip to York, shrieking at the bargains to be had. "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, is that lipstick a pow-nd. Ah don't need it, liek, but it's a POW-ND", "Eeeeeeeeeeeeee, what're we liek, man? Wah're speendaholics!"
They were dead nice actually and so, so, so pleased at discovering the hard-to-find exclusivity of a branch of New Look that I uncharacteristically wasn't angry, just a bit bored waiting in the mile long queue.
I wandered around Coppergate because I like the church and was cheered by a snow-viking outside of the Viking Centre, but he was already melting, his head slipping sadly to the right as if he knows, that no matter how many tourists come, his glory days are over.
A food shop in M&S, which entailed a 15 minute discussion with the lovely, helpful man about rolled oats, their seeming dearth and their apparent complete absence from M&S's stock (that's odd in a place that sells tiny bits of dessicated coconut and things like ready made gravy, don't you think?), and then it was back, through the pie-eating masses huddling round my front door and home. Somehow £1,400 down and strangely unsatisfied.