Admittedly, a reasonably intelligent person probably shouldn't have attempted to go to Zara on its opening weekend in the already-horrendous Sandton City (aka sensory bombardment place of hell and general shitness), but sometimes, the brand-pull is just too strong.
16h00. Saturday. One husband. Two tired toddlers. One credit card, waiting for some friction. Liam and I walk through the kids' section and he chooses a very cool fedora (stylish boy), a hoodie and a T-shirt for his brother. I find a lime green kaftan dress, 2 tops, a bag, some gifts and a few bottles of the kid's fragrances as gift add-ons.
Good to go.
So I stand in the queue in the kids' section, biceps aching from the weight of my pending purchases, just barely managing to breathe because somehow, the fuckwits-that-be have not managed to get the aircon to work in the store on this 35 degree weekend. Nevertheless, I am excited about the store, impressed with the merchandising and glad that finally, we are joining the global fashion community.
Two large Nigerian men and one woman mask the cashier with enough clothing to kit out the whole of Lagos, and she painstakingly scans each item.
"That will be R7654,99 Sir."
Credit card #1. Declined.
Credit card #2. Declined.
Now if it were me, I would walk away sheepishly, ask said cashier to put my stuff aside and sort out my finances without inconveniencing the 12 or so sweating shoppers in the queue behind me. Luckily, this chap doesn't have the same 'over identification with The Other issues' my therapist believes I am plagued by, so he decides to have a heated debate with the cashier. After about 10 minutes, it was resolved and he left, with his wife, his friend and his insufficient funds.
After what had now been 30 minutes in the queue, I was starting to drop things, the perspiration on my forearms creating a slip-slide for my purchases. Not ideal.
Next up: a possy of very well dressed men, clad in citrus-coloured over-priced golf shirts, big Rolex watches, sailor-style shorts and Prada and Gucci sunglasses on their regal heads. They were flanked by 6 (yes...6) Gucci shopping bags FULL of Gucci merchandise. Now I don't know when last you went into Gucci, but a key ring requires a second bond, so these blokes must have dropped some serious moola.
I digress.
"That will be R9235,00."
Credit card #1. Declined.
Credit card #2. Declined.
De ja fucking vu. I'm starting to seethe and the heavily pregnant Muslim woman in front of me looks like she's going to pass out under her burqa.
"Sam. Have you got cash?"
You cannot be fucking serious.
But he's serious, and Sam starts counting a wad of R200 notes.
Sam fails to deliver the required R9235.
"Sam. Pass my iPad."
Sam. Pass MY iPad because I'm about to smash your fuckwit, self-absorbed, callous, broke-ass friend over his thick head.
And then, I shit you not, while we, who have waited, sweating, in a queue for 40 minutes now, wait just a little longer, the Duke of Gucci logs onto FNB and starts moving money around.
At this point, the pregnant lady and I lose our shit. We shout, we swear (in the kids' section - my bad...okay she didn't swear, but she liked it when I did), we dump our merchandise and storm out.
And then the best part. A Poppie with too much eyeliner and the title of 'HR Manager' asks us what was wrong.
"I understand the mayhem," I say. "I understand that you're having some teething problems and the aircon is off so people are cranky. But your till staff are untrained and 40 minutes in a queue is just not okay."
What ensued still feels like a dream to me.
This little rat-faced girl put her hand on my shoulder, PATTED me and sternly instructed me: "Listen to me, luvvie and you just calm down, okay?"
The pregnant woman actually started laughing, gobsmacked by this little shit's insolence.
Needless to say, luvvie went straight to the Brand Manager and explained to him that if this woman continues to deal with understandably irate customers as if they are 5 years old and in need of a spanking, it will result in a brand catastrophe for Zara. I told him that in my entire shopping life, I had never been so patronized and treated with such dismissive disrespect. I suggested that he fire her on the spot and that I would be happy to give Zara another try, but that if I so much as saw her pinched little face, I would be out, and I would tweet, blog and Hello Peter the living crap out of them.
For what it's worth.
And apparently it's worth nothing, because Zara's turnover numbers were around R16 million in that first week.
