I HATE shopping. There are not many things I hate, but I tell you what, I really can't stand shopping.
I was forced to go shoe shopping last week.
My old trusty work kicks had finally given way. The tattered pair hitting the bin sounded a death knell for my enjoyment, because it meant I was off to the shopping centre.
Probably my least favourite of locations, other than a room full of spiders, the shopping centre is not my natural environment.
There are bright lights, lots of people, materialistic crap and "latest trends" which I'm almost never on top of.
I think wearing a denim shirt is quite cutting edge… that's how much I know about fashion.
Anyway, upon parking as far away from Stockland's doors in the car park as I could muster, I headed in, female counterpart in tow.
The only thing I was grateful for was her shared displeasure of the pursuit that is shopping.
Anyway, we made a beeline for the directory to locate the shoe store.
Any more time spent than necessary is akin to water boarding at Guantanamo Bay... I imagine that is the closest comparison I could draw had I ever been water boarded.
So the shoe store was identified, and we forged our path.
Dodging the stupid little benches that just invite people to "sit down, relax, enjoy wasting your life buying things you're going to throw out in three months".
That would be the slogan for my own Stockland.
Caveland I would call it.
It would be a place of fun, happiness, and a maximum of eight minutes in the centre per person before a swarm of bees is let loose with homing devices to chase said shopper out of the centre.
I believe this is the only way to keep people sane.
Alas I have digressed again. Back to the quest for footwear.
So we rolled into the shoe store, and I headed for the first shoes I could find that looked like they would suffice.
The SALE tag on them also helped identify them.
If there's one other thing I hate, it's spending money whilst shopping.
So that was it. The first two pairs I tried on, I bought.
Efficient shopping at its finest.
We were out of that store, and the shopping centre, in about 15 minutes flat.
And while I would normally put a little feel-good thing about the service, or the centre, or this and that, the most joyous part of the whole experience, as it always is when forced to enter the realm of shopping, is banging the car into gear and hightailing it out of the car park.
So after some foetal-position rocking, promises of never having to venture near the precinct for the remainder of my time in Gladstone and some shock therapy, I recovered in time to enjoy the afternoon footy with a scotch in hand.
And the bloody new shoes blistered my foot up real good.
Maybe that's karma for my shopping hate, or maybe it's yet another sign telling me that shopping is the enemy.