Murder mysteries. Scandi noir. Crime thrillers. Police procedurals (a phrase I learnt only recently). Fantasy sagas. Sci-fi. These are what I usually watch for entertainment.
So why on earth was I so fascinated by both Indian Matchmaker and Dubai Bling!?
I have no philosophical, sociological, “look at me I’m so clever” answer.
I know very little about the lives of very rich people and the clothes they wear and accessories they fill their lives with. I get that these shows are aspirational and tap into that deep desire for human drama plus vicarious living plus jealousy.
Also, it was great fun. From afar.
Quick confession: I started out in journalism working on lifestyle, art, food, and the early, exciting days of Indian fashion. This was before everyone was in a competition to become a wedding lehenga tailor.
But all that is forgotten and lost. In those days of journalism, journalists did not have to dress up to look like the people they interviewed. You were free to look like yourself. And on a journalist’s salary in those days, it wasn’t much! This is the 1980s we’re talking about. Pre-economic liberalisation where your most glamorous contact was the neighbourhood smuggler who could get you foreign shampoos!
What I have learnt is that reading a few fancy fashion magazines and so on in no way prepares you for the actual, erm, shopping experience.
Bicester Village is a sort of Disney Land for discounted designer wear outlets. I had the privilege of visiting it in December.
To make this clear, for those who do not know and like me, do not “shop”. There is a place in Oxfordshire called Bicester. Normal-type people live there and do their things.
Bicester Village however is a created place, within the other Bicester. A web search will tell you it is the second-most visited place in the UK by Chinese tourists, after Buckingham Palace. But yet, let’s not forgot the Indians and Arabs. Big numbers of them too.
There are twee faux English-village little cottagey things on either side of a street. But they are actually shops. Some brand names can afford the whole cottage, others share them. Those are semi-detached in British real estate terms.
Apart from tourists and misfits like us, serious shoppers rush past you to get to queues outside the brands of their choice. Sensible ones, like the Chinese and Indians buy suitcases at the suitcase outlet placed strategically at the entrance. This way, they can run straight to the train station with their suitcases when they’re done. The Arabs, who made up the next largest shopping component, did not seem to follow this suitcase model of shopping quite as much.
All around swirl squeals of excitement and disappointment. One desi dude was quite upset that the T-shirts worth 50 pounds which he bought for 29 on his last visit were now discounted to only 41 pounds. I should have really asked him where he found anything under 100 pounds because that was the cut off everywhere I went, bar the High Street shoe brand which frankly had no business being there rubbing shoulders with Jimmy Choo (longest line) and Louboutin. Even I know that much!
The sad thing is, no matter how hard I try to stop myself, I just can’t avoid feeling a tiny bit judgmental. I know it’s hypocritical. I know rich people do rich people things. What’s the use of being rich people otherwise? And we all crave a bit of luxury in our lives, as much as we can afford and sometimes when we can’t afford it too!
The people at this discount amusement park were seemingly at that cusp of really rich and wannabe rich. The saddest and most looked-down-at of all human classes — the aspirational grasper.
I make the assumption here — possibly unfair — that the really rich don’t shop at bargain basement designer outlets. I hope the designers come to their homes with their designs and darzis. At least if I was mega-rich I would demand that. Or designers would use me as live advertising as they do with film stars?
On Dubai Bling! I must say that no one goes to these bargain outlets. They go to fancy shops without suitcases and buy designer jewellery for lots of money when they fight with their husbands.
It all looks really ugly to me but I admire the aplomb.
Because having lived as long as I have, I clearly have not grown up. I don’t know how to do “make-up” other than lipstick and eyeliner. I don’t use hair “products” or face “products”. I don’t own a blow-dryer. Is it any wonder that I am full of wonder at people who are adept and skilful at this stuff?
I went to a school reunion and found that all my old friends, even those I hadn’t met for years, were the same. We all seemed to dress the same, handloom textiles, jeans and tops. Useless!
Now I say to myself, is it time for change? Should I have not looked askance and even worse, laughed at the Bicester Village concept and its avid fans? Should I have plundered my bank account for a handbag worth 200 pounds because it had a designer label on it? Who knows where I would wear it, can one put hand sanitizers and digestive tablets in such bags? I talked a lot about wearing sequins at 60 and could not bring myself to buy even one sequined thing!
Anyway, I’m hanging in there. Maybe I can skirt the edges of this lifestyle?
Of course I’m lying. The best part of this shopping excursion was the sight of a bright pink plasticky little boxy handbag with the designers’ two name brand written out in enormous glass fake jewels. It was by far the ugliest thing I have ever seen and this includes PWD-built concrete shells. The price was even uglier and funnier: Over 2300 pounds, knocked down to 1600. And no one had bought it.
I hung around it on that cold December evening but there were no takers. Maybe there is a limit to bad taste. Or maybe someone was buying a suitcase just for this as I walked out?
I really, really hope so!
Don’t you?
