Stop Thief!

Hey you, blonde middle class woman with the two kids and a husband,  You stole a £65 summer dress from my shop.

Robbing from an independent shop, really?

Your kids are gonna hate you.  Get help you fucking bitch.

 

I need a wee

10am, I’ve just opened the shop and I am about to make myself a brew and check emails.

A middle aged mum pushes an empty buggy through the shop door. She enters with a huge backpack on her shoulders and a trail of 5 kids. Morning! I say.

She doesn’t reply or make any eye contact. When she’s sure her trail of kids are in the shop, she closes the door, swings off the backpack and takes out a pink plastic potty. She places the potty in the middle of the shop floor, whips down the knickers of her youngest child and sits her on the potty.

Don’t you be touching stuff! – she warns the 4 other kids, who were looking for opportunity to check out the shop. She takes out a wipe from the backpack.

All done, she pulls up the pants of the youngest child, picks up the potty and steers the kids, the buggy and the half empty backpack back out of the shop.

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.

You need New Mirrors in your Shop

So, I own a little shop in a little village. We get some customers which is always nice, however I notice it’s busier in the summer when the sun is shining. The shining sun makes people want to get out and about and look at things in shops. Plus the shop door is always open in the summer and having an open door attracts all sorts of time wasters and weirdos.

One lovely summer morning in comes in a young woman.

I’ve seen a dress in your window and I’m wondering if you still have it – she says.

Which dress was that – I reply.

She goes on to explain which dress she had seen and fortunately we still had it in a multitude of sizes.

She chooses her size and wants to try it on.

No problem at all – says I and walk her to the changing room.

A few minutes later she comes out of the changing room wearing the dress.

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Your mirrors are funny – she says.

Try this full length mirror – I say – This is a brand new mirror. The changing room mirrors are rather old.

She looks at herself in the brand new mirror, and does a few twirls to see herself at different angles.

Can you take a photo of me in the dress, do you mind? – she asks and passes me her phone.

I take a photo of her in the dress with her phone.  She looks at the picture of herself.

Your mirrors – she says – they all make my body look funny.

She goes back into the changing room and takes off the dress.

I’ll think about the dress – she tells me as she puts it on the counter.

OK – I say. I’m rather bemused at this point.

You should think about getting new mirrors – she advises me. Your mirrors make my body look really funny.

I’ll bear that in mind – I reply.

Have a nice day – I say as she walks out of the door.

Fucking new mirrors my arse.

When people return stuff after a month

I run a small shop in a small village. This blog is a good old rant to get the crazy fucked up people who come into my shop out of my system.  This way I spread my pissed offness so I feel it less.  Thanks for reading.

The people who generally visit my shop are local people who live locally.

Why wait a month to return stuff?

You live around the corner. You must have tried this item on as soon as you got home so realised it wasn’t for you on the day you bought it.

Did you try and sell it on ebay before you brought it back to me? Do you think returning stuff after a month is honestly acceptable? Or are you that skint at the end of this month that you regret paying £15 for a top last month? 

This is not acceptable. Don’t do it. Be good consumers and don’t piss off the people who bust a fucking gut trying to keep your local high street alive.

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Will you sell my shit in your shop?

Tuesday morning, weather is terrible. In comes a large out of breath woman dragging a large suitcase behind her.

She asks for the manager, and since I’m the only person in this shop, that’s me.

Can I hire a rail in your shop – she asks, after catching her breath.

What are you wanting to sell in my shop – I ask tentatively. Every week I get someone wanting me to sell their shit in my shop.

I make unusual high end fashion clothing – she replies.

Ok let’s have a look at your samples then – I respond out of good courtesy. And of course because I’m nosey since this is the first time anyone wanting me to sell their shit has actually brought any of it with them.

She struggles to kneel on the floor and practically collapses on her overpacked suitcase. I am getting extremely concerned by this point that she will have a heart attack and die in the middle of the shop floor.

She puffs and pants and unzips the suitcase. The smell of cigarette smoke, chip fat and god knows what coming out of the suitcase is overwhelming. It smells like an old man’s pub from the 1970s. I breathe shallowly through my mouth and light an incense stick whilst she prepares her high end fashion clothing.

Do you wear your own clothing – I ask.

Of course I do – she replies. I notice she isn’t wearing any of it today.

I lift up a dress.

How much would you charge for this dress – I ask.

£120 – she’s confident.

What? I ask – You want £120 wholesale?

Ah no – she explains – You’d sell this for £120 and give me a percentage.

Ok. Let’s have a think. That would be the most expensive dress in the whole shop by a long shot and it smells like it’s been stuck in a fucking wheelie bin for a week.  And it’s not that good.

The shop is really full, as you can see – I say – There is no room for any other suppliers, unfortunately.

She packs up her stuff and struggles up off the floor. I’m still shallow breathing to the point my lungs are tight and my head feels like it’s about to explode. I just want her and her clothing out of the frigging shop before one of us dies.

I’ll give you a card in case you ever have a rail free – she says and fiddles about in her pockets.

Thanks – I reply, taking the card. I watch her trundle out of the shop, taking her unusual high end fashion with her. After she’s huffed and puffed down the road, I prop the door open and do a little dance around the shop with the incense stick.

Here’s 3 tips for you people who make your own clothing and want it to be stocked in independent shops:

1. Research your target shop. Would your stuff fit with their range? For example don’t bring blingy chav clothing into a punk shop, it aint gonna fit. 

2. If you’re confident about your home made clothing – WEAR THE FUCKING STUFF.

3. Make it smell nice, for fucks sake. No one’s gonna buy an overpriced dress that smells like the inside of a rancid old squat. 

Fuck the Police!

One Saturday afternoon, probably about 3 months ago now, a woman came in the shop. Big lady, West Indian, probably older than she looked.

She has a few plastic carrier bags rammed with stuff, which she puts down on the floor in the middle of the shop. This is her first time in the shop, so she has a good look, picking up the skirts and holds them up against herself, same with some of the trousers. Everything on the right hand of the shop and nothing on the left.

The she spots the resin necklaces. Can I look at those – she said, no smile, no please, resting bitch face at its best. I pass over the display of resin necklaces and she takes one, inspects it and walks over to the mirror at the back of the shop. I watch her struggling for a while to put the hook in the eye of the necklace round the back of her neck. Then I ask her if she needed any help with that?

No one gets to know me! she screams and practically stamps her foot on the floor.

So I let her struggle for a few minutes until she’s managed to get the necklace round her neck. Then she comes back to the counter and asks for a silk scarf, which she immediately ties round her head.

Then she walks back to the clothing rail and picked up an Indian style skirt, takes it back to the mirror and, without taking any of her clothing of, pulls the skirt on carefully over her scarf covered head and jams it onto her waist.

No one gets to know me – she repeats a few times, I am presuming to herself as she was looking at herself in the mirror.  Then she turns to the counter and says to me – I’m a spiritual person. No one can get to know me.

Ah ok – says I.

She turns back to the mirror and mumbles – Fucking pigs. The fucking police, fuck the police.

Have you  had a run in with the police this morning – I ask.

No – she replies – The fucking police don’t know me. No one can judge me. The fucking pigs. Fuck the police.

There’s an awkward silence for about 4 minutes. She’s looking at herself in the mirror and eventually she says – I’ll take these.

She pulls off the skirt, the scarf, struggles to undo the necklace and puts them all on the counter. I ring the items through the till and fold them in a bag whilst she pays with her credit card.

Thanks very much and hope to see you again – says I as she picks up her bags and makes her way through the door. She doesn’t reply.

30 minutes later I see her through the window, approaching the shop. She comes in and plops the skirt onto the counter.

This is too small – she says – I want a refund.

Stop touching the fucking wet look leggings you fucker! Get out of the shop and don’t fucking come back

I run a clothing shop in a small village in England and that’s all I’m going to say about the location. I sell clothes and that’s all I’m saying about the shop.

I’m inspired to write this blog by all the fucking crazy fucked up people who come into my shop. The shop has been open for 5 months now, so I’m going to start with the most recent fucked up incident. This happened yesterday and I will write it as I remember it.

Approx 11.30 am Saturday morning. Saturdays aren’t the busiest day for us, why, I don’t know. Maybe people don’t know we’re here yet or maybe the whole shop idea wasn’t the best one I’ve ever had, but whatever, keep plodding on and trying. So I’m sat on the chair next to the counter, updating all the hair dyes on the website. In comes in a smallish chubby bloke. I said the usual shop greeting, Hi, or nice day or some shit. He looks through the punk band t-shirts so I don’t think too much of it.

Then he asks about where I get my clothing from, which isn’t an unusual question either (the most insulting question being – Are these clothes second hand? cheeky fuckers). So the conversation is struck up and I talk him through some suppliers. Then he’s looking through the women’s clothing, which also isn’t that unusual since people come in to buy stuff for other people, wives, girlfriends, etc. So I ask him – Are you looking for anything specific?

I’m looking for fetish clothing – is his reply. So I’m amused for a while. We don’t actually have any fetish clothing. He flicks through all the clothing until his eyes are fixated on a pair of McBeth leggings. He flicks past these and onto the tartan mini skirts and those decorated with safety pins. He picks out a couple of tartan skirts and a burlesque style skirt and asks if he can try them on. I’m not a biggot and his money is as good as that belonging to anyone, so I say yes, and he asks about the McBeth leggings. I take them off the rail and hand them to him, telling him – You’ll never find a better pair of leggings than those, they are amazing. He pops off to the changing room.

After a lot of huffing and puffing and grunting (yeah grunting in the changing room for fucks sake), he comes out wearing the Mcbeth leggings. He asks me how he looks, what can I say except super, yes they really suit you. So he goes back into the changing room and tries the skirts on. I tell him the tartan skirts would look well with whalebone fishnets, if he was after a classic punk look. This is what started my suspicions… he wanted to try on the tights. I told him he couldn’t try them on for hygiene reasons, he would have to buy them. So he didn’t try them on.

So after a tooing and frooing out of the changing room, him asking my opinion of how he looked in the skirts, he decides he wasn’t going to buy any of the skirts and he would take the McBeth leggings. Then he decides he wants to have another look around the shop. Then he decides he wants to try on the McBeth leggings again. It’s a fucking good job we’re not a busy shop.

He comes out of the changing room wearing the leggings again. He says – I really like the feel of these leggings. Then he snaps the waistband against his flabby stomach and says – I really like the sound of them as well.

I’m nearly fucking sick in my own mouth.

Eventually he’s got himself back dressed in his own clothes and hands me the leggings, saying – Yes, I’ll definitely take these. As I’m putting them into a bag he adds – Tomorrow. So I say to him – You want these leggings tomorrow?

So today is tomorrow and I’m sat here in the shop and no fucker has come in for McBeth leggings. If it’s you and you’re reading this you are fucking banned from the shop, don’t come in here wanting to feel the fucking wet look leggings and whalebone tights you fucker! Get out of the fucking shop and don’t fucking come back in here trying stuff on unless you’re spending your fucking money! Cunt.