It’s been quite an afternoon.

I’ve been to Primark.

I go to Primark once a year: to buy sunglasses and vest tops. Enough to get me through a full twelve months, before I have to darken its McDonalds smeared doorstep again. I would love to purchase sunglasses and vest tops from an alternative source, but there is nowhere I can find where I can get such an enormous variety of each for such a disgustingly low price.

And, let’s just be clear here. I don’t loathe and despise Primark because I’m an enormous crashing snob.

Oh, who am I trying to kid. The fact I loathe and despise Primark is one hundred percent because I’m an enormous crashing snob.

The trouble with only going to Primark once a year is that you kind of forget just how awful it really is. I am an eternal optimist. When the time comes for my annual Primark trip, my rose tinted glasses are well and truly in place.

Until approximately 1.4 seconds after I step over the threshold.

My god, it is AWFUL. I have never been to a war zone, and I hope never to have to go one… and I am fairly sure war zones feature bullets and bombs rather than diamanté flip flops for a pound and four pairs of leopard print leggings for a tenner… but I can kind of understand where the analogies come from. By the end of the experience I definitely wanted to commit atrocities against mankind.

Beth and I entered the store and she pressed instinctively close to me. Beth, while generally confident, has extremely strong inbuilt survival skills. She had sensed this was going to be bad.

Everywhere you looked, chaos abounded. Two women were in a full blown punch up over the last Little Miss Trouble size 18 slouchy tee. An elderly gentleman stood baffled and confused next to a display of hair chalks and fingerless gloves with BITCH sewn across the knuckles. Two children were fighting over a 38DD bra with magenta lace trim. And, in the middle of the aisle, one woman was screaming, for no apparent reason at all that I could see other than she was in Primark.

In the thirty minutes or so that we were in there, I heard the in store cleaner called SEVEN times. SEVEN! To different locations, too. What the fuck goes on in Primark that means you need an in store cleaner’s services more than once every five minutes?!

We found our vest tops and sunglasses. We headed to the checkouts, where the cashiers looked virtually suicidal. I looked around at my fellow Primark shoppers. I hadn’t realised that ‘grey’ was a potential skin tone until then. I had an overwhelming urge to cross the road to Boots, purchase a family sized bottle of vitamin C tablets, and start handing them out.

Our items purchased, we left. We paused outside the shop. I looked at Beth. She looked at me.

“What was that, Mum?”

“I don’t even know, to be honest.”

“It’s a good job I know how to cope, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when you make me go places like that. I’m very good at coping.”

I’m glad one of us was 😂


PS Before I get lynched… yes, this was all tongue in cheek. Yes, I do love Primark for its disturbingly cheap items; no, I don’t think everyone in there is deserving of an ASBO (maybe just the 5%); yes, I am an enormous crashing snob and fucking proud of it too 😂😂😂

One thought on “Primark

  1. I bumped into a friend of mine the other day and asked him what he was doing these days, he told me he had a job handing out clothes to poor people. I said that was upstanding of him. He replied “Not really, I work in Primark” 😅😅


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