Marks and SpencerMy blood runs thick with anti-colonial resentment; born by the suffering of my ancestors at the hands of the merciless English aristocracy and nobility. In my veins, the anger persists of the wrongs against the Irish as Scots who helped form my DNA. The exportation of my uneducated, poor and hungry forebears rests within me as a burning resentment against the Empire and its belief that a criminal gene resided in the veins of the victims of the industrial revolution. As a True Blue antipodean, my antipathy with the exploits of Ned Kelly fire my every breath to this day. My resentment towards the English can no longer be displayed on the battlefield or by the highwayman exploits of Ned Kelly. Instead I have to wait for the pitched battles on the rugby pitch or cricket ground.

My wife however, in not antipodean. She is Swiss. So these strange attitudes that pump through my veins are completely foreign to her. I know she has tried to comprehend, but it is a lost cause. It is something you need to be born with to understand. But, she allows me space to indulge myself, and has become accustomed to my anti-English black humour.

Occasionally though she forgets. As was the case this week when she decided to drag me along for a little shopping and lead me straight into the bastion of the English class system. Marks & Spencer.

The hair on the back of my neck immediately shot to attention, my skin started to itch and the sensation of anger and need for retribution rose from my bowels. I was in the centre of the dreaded enemy’s class conscious, over priced, Portuguese exploited, fashion cemetery of an English woman’s idea of paradise.

We made it to the second floor, just after the lingerie department, before my wife noticed something strange about my demeanour. She noticed the odd livid colour rising in my cheeks, an irregularity in my breathing, my sweating forehead and my propensity to huff a lot. She innocently ask me what was wrong, but I couldn’t answer as I was sure I would have been arrested for indecent language if I opened my mouth.

Luckily, she had the instant wisdom to escort me from the premises by the shortest possible route and install me at a nearby café and immediately ordered a medicinal glass of beer for me. She kindly and patiently waited until I had finished my third beer before she ask me how I was feeling.

I just grunted something starting with ‘F’.

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One thought on “Marks And Spencer

  • 04/12/2009 at 6:01 pm

    Now I know I am an odd Brit, I have never entered M&S since I arrived in Cyprus,yes we have one here. My expat friends all rant about it. Mind you I am not a normal woman, I hate shopping ;0 DH thinks it is strange, but like the fact that the bank balance stays intact.
    Interesting post.

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