The results, to date, have been decidedly mixed. Like many people, I have finally succumbed to the charms of Internet shopping, although the outcomes are somewhat unpredictable. Frankly, the entire exercise is a black hole; one in which time loses its meaning. Where the quest to manage your virtual shopping basket becomes something of a holy quest before the connection times out or the site crashes. Serves me right for using a homemade modem I put together with an empty tissue box, three bits of string and a nine-volt battery.
The results, to date, have been decidedly mixed. Like many people, I have finally succumbed to the charms of Internet shopping, although the outcomes are somewhat unpredictable. Frankly, the entire exercise is a black hole; one in which time loses its meaning. Where the quest to manage your virtual shopping basket becomes something of a holy quest before the connection times out or the site crashes. Serves me right for using a homemade modem I put together with an empty tissue box, three bits of string and a nine-volt battery.
Normally, I resist change. That’s why I still ride a horse to work and don’t own anything with Velcro, preferring the old-fashioned reliability that only a button can bring. But no one can deny the future. It comes whether we’re ready for it or not. Being part of the virtual shopping world means that a whole bunch of people refer to me as a Very Important Person. I try my best not to let this go to my head, but it’s not easy. It’s the kind of honour that only the Internet can bestow. I am mindful that if I were to march into their physical stores expecting the staff to bow and curtsey and generally fall over themselves with the excitement that comes with being in my presence, I would be in for something of a shock. No amount of proclaiming, ‘don’t you know who I am?’ would help. But on-line, these same retailers treat me like the most special person on earth. You kind of get used to it.
The email appeared in my inbox without fanfare, wishing me a happy birthday. More than that, because of my VIP status, they offered me discounted on-line shopping. I was beside myself with excitement. This, however, meant there were two of me instead of the customary one which resulted in all kinds of awkwardness. But after the initial explosion of excitement, I managed to pull myself together (meaning there was just one of me, once more) and log in for the on-line shopping experience of a lifetime.
When you go into a store, a shirt is just a shirt. But when you shop using the Internet, you realize that everything has a ridiculous name. The red shirt with the polka dots is, in fact, ‘the Donovan’, doubtless named after Jason Donovan or perhaps Mr. Mellow Yellow himself. On this particular site, the shirts were named after all kinds of people. There was the ‘Jeremy’, the ‘Luiz’, the tapered fit ‘Mateus’ and, my personal favourite, ‘the Darren’. (Fair or otherwise, it feels as though ‘the Darren’ ought to have pockets for the TV remote and a built-in stubby holder). There was even a shirt named ‘the Stuart’. How could I possibly resist?
This was no longer a matter of a shirt. This was destiny. That a clothing company should go out of its way to create an item of apparel in my honour is the kind of recognition that, previously, only a knighthood could bestow. It’s not quite as good as getting your own ice cream like Jimmy Barnes or Dame Edna Everage but it’s close. Granted, the garment was designed without any consultation with me whatsoever (perhaps they wanted to surprise me. I am, after all, a Very Important Person) but it seemed churlish to complain.
It was something I did in the heat of the moment. I selected ‘the Stuart’, the regular fit ‘Wayne’ and a long-sleeved ‘Ulysses’. I clicked and typed and moved from screen to screen as though competing in some kind of Internet shopping time trial. My virtual shopping basket navigated its way surely and steadily towards the end until, finally, a confirmation appeared and I was told that a receipt was heading my way. There was nothing left to do now but wait.
A week later it magically arrived. But the postman didn’t seem particularly fussed that I was a VERY IMPORTANT PERSON, despite my explanation. Rather, he slung the package in my direction without any fanfare, despite my request that he present each item as if it were an award. I carefully opened the parcel, taking great care not to damage the contents. As the shirts were revealed, something did not seem quite right. Laying them out on the bed, the problem became obvious. The ‘Wayne’ was a medium, as was the long sleeved ‘Ulysses’. The ‘Stuart’ however, had arrived as an Extra, Extra, Extra Large. Until that moment, I had no idea that ‘Extra, Extra, Extra Large’ even existed. Now, here it was, right in front of me.
I am loath to complain. Despite my status as a ‘medium’, I wondered whether I could make do with an Extra, Extra, Extra Large shirt. Maybe wear it under a jumper. But it was no use. I’d end up looking like David Byrne in Stop Making Sense or one of those Subway guys after they’ve eaten sandwiches. I had no choice but to return the shirt that had been created in my honour. With mixed emotions, I wrapped it up and headed for the post office. After lavishing me with praise and naming a shirt after me, they didn’t really know me at all. That they should think that I’m the size of a family sedan means they haven’t been paying attention. That’s the Internet for you: it’s a place where you can be someone’s best friend and a complete stranger all at once.