The last time we went shopping in Londinium he saw a shirt he liked but refused to buy it. Pretty much every time I've spoken to him since then I've asked him when he's going to buy the shirt - kind of like a kid asking "are we there yet?" to his parents during a long road trip. Finally this week he caved - ha!
So we met up and headed straight for the Cult store in Covent Garden. In addition to forcing a good friend to spend money against his will I also had a reason for going to this shop; Sparky Ma recently asked me if I knew what I wanted for my birthday, and I'd seen a Superdry jacket that I'd taken a bit of a fancy to and thought I'd better try it on to gauge what size I might need. This would be lovely for several reasons, one being the fact that Marcosy and I actually both have identical jackets at the moment, meaning that when we meet up we look a bit like a) twins (I call dibs on the Schwarzenegger role - he can be the DeVito genetic splashback), or b) some sort of all-male Howard and Hilda.
The Cult store is rammed full of clothes to the point that there's very little room for customers to actually get in, but we eventually managed to squeeze in and Marcosy headed straight for the shirts. After a couple of minutes looking through the racks he turned to me and threw my usual excuse - "they don't have my size…" - at me. I humphed, resisted the temptation to slap him, and walked off in search of the jackets.
The jackets were located just across from the shirts, and I quickly grabbed the one that I like and tried it on. It felt good, and perfect for the any cold weather we might get; it has a high woolen collar (which reminded me of the coat Kirk wears in Star Trek II), and woolen thumbies to keep my hands toastie. It also has three - count'em, three - zips up the front, which might sound excessive but looks quite cool. And by 'looks quite cool' I actually mean 'a little bit confusing in practice.' Because I zipped the wrong bit of one zip with the other bit of another zip and it all got a bit messy.
I genuinely thought I was going to be trapped in the jacket forever.
Marcosy, of course, found the whole thing HI-larious, so I told him to just shut up and buy a bloody shirt before storming off to look at myself trapped in a jacket in a mirror, meaning that not only did we look a bit like specially-dressed twins/all-male Howard and Hilda, but now we looked like specially-dressed twins/all-male Howard and Hilda having a barney in a clothes shop. By this point as well, Marcosy was holding both my jacket and his own, and I was convinced he was going to do the old switcheroo in an effort to get his mits on my iPhone, which was nestled safely in an inside pocket. Shit, that just reminded me - I didn't check out interior pocket availability on the Superdry jacket. Poo.
Anyway, finding a mirror actually wasn't as easy as it seemed because there's not much free wall space in the Cult store and at one point I was looking at myself in an open doorframe and wondering where my reflection had gone. I eventually found one (a mirror, not another doorframe), and waited a couple of minutes while some gangly emo tried on a plaid overshirt. Eventually he tired of sighing and flicking his hair and moved away, and I began admiring myself in a manly fashion from a variety of different angles straight from a catalogue photoshoot and deciding that, yes, the jacket was awesome.
"You'd have to leave about half an hour spare in the morning to make sure you had time to do it up properly," said Marcosy, who'd scurried after me. I scowled, then spent five minutes struggling to undo the jacket without arousing the suspicion of the shop staff who might think I was up to no good. I eventually got it off, hung it back up, retrieved my own jacket, checked that my iPhone was still in the pocket, and told Marcosy to buy a shirt - any shirt, WHATEVER.
And he did. Job done.
We then headed to a little cafe bit outside the Superdry store where I suggested that his purchase was just part of some elaborate scheme intended to fool me into thinking that he'd bought the shirt to appease my demands, when in fact he was probably going to take it back tomorrow. He laughed nervously, then told me how the guy at the till had spoken to him in street lingo and called him "brother." I asked if he'd tried to do a street-style knuckle-bang greeting.
"What?" said Marcosy.
"Y'know," I replied. "Did he fist you across the counter?" Only realising just a moment too late how inappropriate, rude, and downright wrong it was to refer to a form of greeting in that way.
Big news people! I'm up for a blogging award!! I know it probably goes against all that's good and honest to encourage everyone - whether you're a regular or a newbie - to go vote for me, but seriously: GO VOTE FOR ME!
And massive thanks to Oddthomas for nominating me!!
Good grief - can you imagine if I win? I'll be even more insufferable than usual! Should I think about writing a speech? Renting a tux?!