Flat shopping

Been shopping for a flat to rent via Trademe recently. Not actually moving till there is a proper job offer, but it doesn't hurt to see what is out there.

Started off in selected areas and now roam the country with my mouse in the $250 weekly price range. One photo of the property doesn't really cut it, three or more is my minimum to even click on the ad. Then I can get a better idea of the whole flat.

Photos can be shots of just the outside, carpet, doors or windows, but not the actual room. A picture says a thousand words, if you look closely at the fittings and finishes they indicate the age and condition of the property.

Some don't know how to download big enough photos or how to rotate them! Have to turn 90 degrees to see the flat, I know I'm dedicated.

If they list the address and I'm tempted, I'll look at it virtually on Google Earth and size up the neighbourhood.

Most flats are vacant during their glamorous photo shoot but some are still occupied, giving a hint of the tenants' personality and culture. The more stuff in the shot, the bigger indication that there is little to no storage space.

Some vendors are cunning and have an alluring picture but rather disappointing summary. In the summary, it becomes more obvious that it's either a boarding house or a bedsit, studio or cupboard with toilets available at the local shops.

Unfortunately the majority look so grotty, they would have to pay me to move in! Or the wording of the summary is strange and unsettling.
One I looked at specified a male tenant as there wasn't enough room for excess female items, charming!
Still I'm addicted, the perfect flat is out there- just a matter of finding it.

Fitting Boxes

Recession or not, its time to bite the bullet and hit the shops with a deflated wallet for some desperately needed essentials!

Luckily stores are in permanent sale mode but as a cautious shopper I still like to try before I buy. That's the beauty of ready-to-wear.

I still hate the dreaded fitting room though.
Often a tortured honesty box of questions and reasoning, the environment itself is part of the problem.

Doors or curtains- the ultimate pretense of privacy. Whether its calico, velvet or a solid cubicle door, it never stops pesky and bored sales assistants from trying to entice me out.

Mirrors or lack of them! Once when trying on a salmon dress in an ill-lit tight cubicle, I concluded I could pass for a skinless sausage- pale pink is definitely not my colour. Suffice to say, I didn't buy it.

Without a cubicle mirror, its a complete guess. Another ploy to entice you out of the fitting room to see the result in the large store mirror and involve the sales assistant.
Next shop please!

Hooks can be rare or plentiful.
In Farmers' revamped fitting rooms, there are slogans above hooks as an organisational tool for the flustered shopper. "Definitely", "Maybe" or "Next Time?" are a rather cynical ploy.
I'd like it better if they added a "What was I thinking?" hook. I'd be tempted to put every hanger on it to start with.

Lighting makes a difference to how you look- tired, puffy or annoyed or all three. It also reminds you what kind of shop you're in and the price tag, the brighter big chain store or the low and atmospheric boutique.
A small mercy is the bigger the store chain, the bigger the "honest shopper" sign detailing the maximum of 3 garments in rooms at one time and camera surveillance.

Try before you buy = take it or leave it. At the end of the fitting session you can walk out, put them all on the reject rack or make polite comments to the assistant that it didn't suit. I love ready-made.

I'm not sure though if I'll ever get over feeling like I've tried to get changed in a sleeping bag, just to expand my wardrobe.

Art Deco City

Its all palm trees and sunshine in the bay. They are also rather proud of their art deco architecture, which is stunning but almost like a time warp.

Shopping on a Saturday, I tried on hats at a art deco costume shop on sale.
Its quirky when its just dress-up but I've heard they go all out on Art Deco Weekend.

It was Kelt Capital Spring Carnival weekend- the ultimate racing event and there were people on the street dressed in 40s costume. It felt a bit like a movie but everyone else seemed to be staring at them too.

On my travels, I went into an antiques and vintage clothing store. It was like a cheap gift store with bright lights on glass cabinets.
When I walked in, a number of plastic looking necklaces greeted me. The sign above them said "Genuine art deco necklaces found in the back of a European warehouse. $12 each."

Jewellery glass cases housed broaches, necklaces and crystals at the front of the store.
Down the main aisle, I came across a secondhand bookshop area, gloves, bags, war memorabilia, binoculars and finally a 1940s department store style vintage clothes area.
Hats were perched on old mannequin heads and dresses 'pre-1970' were displayed on racks.

It all started to feel rather morbid instead of quirky. Its great to enthuse about the era but it dawned on me that all the ex-owners are probably dead.
All this was reinforced by the 1940s style song with lyrics 'I'm going to live til I die'.

As other customers poked at the items on display, the whole thing seemed a tacky and distasteful way to honour the past. So I quickly exited, walking home via the steep staircases and lanes weaving above the city.

It was a sunny Saturday and the art deco detail of the city was more apparent as I climbed the hill. How could I argue with the views, palm trees and this small city's style!

Town Centre

After writing teeline passages about town centres, I've begun to wonder if they still exist.

If you believe the promotional imagery at your large nearby carbon copy shopping centre, its a place to meet friends and get all your to-do lists done.

When people-watching the other day at yet another Westfield, families kept to themselves, couples walked oblivious, school children gossiped and individuals moved with determination. No-one outside of shops seemed to actually interacting.

Architects impressions of new shopping centres highlight the building and the brand as the main attraction to the complex. People are barely decoration on the footpath or public areas even though they lure the viewer into the image and sell the concept as a place to be. It remains the same when these centres are built.

Reading the local paper, I came across an ad for my local block of shops. It termed the shops as 'a shopping centre where everyone knows your name'.
Like a lot of 1960-70s suburban shops in Hamilton, it is a singular row of shops with parking in the front and a large pot-holed car park at the back.

Owned by a family trust, basic necessities such as butcher, vet, fruiterer and real estate agent have gone. Replaced by cafes, therapists and furniture upholsters.

I won't term it the epicentre for the local community, but then maybe we don't require a modern version of the town square.

We call, text and meet at other locations on the move. The world doesn't stand still for us to interact with others.

Consumer Pawn

I find the best time to peruse the stores is when I'm really tired.
I can wander without motivation and not get frustrated. Unfortunately it isn't without its consequences, as an internal critical dialogue begins. It revolves around the central question of "why am I doing this when I could be sleeping?" but strays to goods, signs and shoppers analysis.

"Can I help you?" is the death kill conversation opener and drips of desperation. I was hoping to exchange dull pleasantries but now I have to justify my existence just to begin a conversation. With my sleep walking and happy temperament interrupted, the inevitable "just looking" comes out and my retreat to the exit.

Friendlier conversations may be in the tone of friends stopping by for coffee, all warm and fuzzy. Reacting favourably to this atmosphere, unwittingly makes me the pawn in the brutal retail game and then I have to question my motivations for shopping.
Does my self-esteem, validity or existence really hinge on a shop assistant, who just wants to sell me something.

Being ignored is expected, maybe if I was awake, I'd take offence. No point coming back when I'm now a member of the rejection club and a number.

An internal monologue can lead to irrational choices and perceptions, but it livens up the most trivial situation. Just turn it off when you see a movie. You start to question why an actor is wearing an ugly shirt or when the actress will pick up her handbag.