I go clothes shopping once a year. Or twice if there's a special occasion. And this Friday there was indeed one of those as I was throwing a party in a former Victorian toilet (but that's another story). So I thought I'd better buy a skirt or a dress, as a pair of jeans or the same dress I'd worn to the last two Christmas parties wouldn't really be making enough of an effort for my own party.
And in my own true style, I'd left it all to the last minute, so it was that I found myself flushed out of the tube on Thursday evening and straight into surfing the crowds on Oxford Street. The surf was strong and aggressive that evening, but I didn't mind as I'd already decided that I was only going to one shop. The one-stop shop, Topshop, and its flagship store. The Titanic of Oxford Street, with floor upon floor of gaudy sequins, folk deluxe, scratchy lace, mini tartan, military jackets and black ankle boots. You didn't need to risk losing your humour and shopping ambitions in the sea of people on the streets when you had it all there in that one building.
Yet as I headed towards it, I saw what looked like a fire through one of the windows on the first floor. But everyone else was just going about their business, so I thought it must have been some kind of early Christmas decoration. A glowing light in the window or some such nonsense. Even though when I crossed the road and looked at it a little closer, I could have sworn I saw a flicker of a flame, but as no-one else appeared to have seen it, I just pretended to myself that I hadn't either, and headed for the doors.
Just as I was at the entrance and closer to my chosen skirt, so nearer to getting home and putting my feet up, the sulphuric stench of burning hit my nostrils, but I decided to ignore it, and attempted to carry on walking in. Then the firm hand of the security man at the door pushed me back and looked me in the eyes with an incredulous expression and said, 'You can't come in, we're evacuating the building!' The smell seemed far stronger all of a sudden and I saw the women inside with slight panic on their faces, heading for the exit. Outside, the crowd on the street had calmed, as all the people had stopped to watch and take photos of Topshop on fire. I couldn't believe it. I'd actually walked into a building I knew was on fire, just to buy a skirt. I probably wouldn't even do that to rescue a dog, or a teddy bear. And I don't even care about clothes.
In fact, it was my hatred for shopping that had led me to do it. I could stand the smell of burning mannequins and sequins, the choking smoke and deadly heat. But not walking the streets wearing a hole in my foot going to shop after shop of ridiculous clothes, the hideous lighting in the changing rooms, the nubile 14 year olds wearing the clothes you were about to try on and the mind numbing queuing at the end.
I gave up and got something to eat, and was only gone about three quarters of an hour when I walked back to the tube at Oxford Circus and saw that Topshop had reopened. Well it was late night shopping, probably one of the most profitable days of the week. And I realised that this Titanic at least, never sinks.
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