Isn’t shopping getting difficult? Mavis went to the White Company to buy a mattress topper, but they didn’t have one in stock. “You can get it online,” said the assistant. “But I’m here in your shop,” said she, “because I don’t want to go online. Could I see a sample?” No.
Same thing in M&S, where she went to buy a particular dress.
“Have you checked online?”
“No,” said Mavis. “Can you look? Or order me one?”
“No. You must check and order online. There’s more stock there.”
“But I’m standing here, with money, wanting to buy it,” said Mavis, because she also wanted to see it, feel it, try it on, have a tactile experience, interact with a person.
So that’s two shops she won’t be visiting again. Or Tesco, for ethical reasons (and I won’t be visiting again either, because I still haven’t forgiven Lady Porter for what she did to Westminster). Or anywhere with self-service checkouts, which we loathe. Nor can we go to our little local theatre, because you can’t ring to book a ticket – you have to go online, or trudge there on the off-chance, when there probably won’t be any tickets.
Even online is not far enough. American Cousin wanted to buy three tiles from a Manchester firm. No phone number, she had to go on-bloody-line, fill in a form describing her request, which kept being rejected but eventually allowed her to leave a phone number. Someone rang, and Cousin ordered her tiles. “I’ll send you a cheque,” she said. He didn’t accept cheques. Credit card? He didn’t accept credit cards. Her bank must wire the money to his bank. But her bank never anwers the phone, so she must schlep there in person. For three tiles, £22.
Then, one day, when all shop assistants have obediently directed customers online, done themselves out of a job, shops have closed through lack of custom, anyone without a computer is rotting away at home, and we’ve lost what it means to be human, you’ll realise the luddites deserved some brownie points. So does the internet. It is marvellous in some ways, but baby? Bathwater?
