Shoe Box Paradox

'Don't need the box, do you?'

'Nah, I'll take 'em in the bag, thanks.'

Assistant puts shiny footwear pair in plastic carrier and hands it to hapless customer, who promptly hurries home with it. Such was the scenario throughout my youth and young adulthood. Indeed, for two decades at least, I don't think I ever carried a shoe box home. Then, half a decade or so ago, it all changed.

Somebody, somewhere realised that shoe boxes were desirable items because they are, quite simply, the best way of storing, er, shoes. As a result, the shoe box is no longer a despised lump of cardboard but a hi-tech, style item cocooning your precious collection of brogues and boots from dirt, dust, extremes of atmosphere and the myriad evils present in the average domestic dwelling.

All those mocking quips, e.g., 'living in a shoe box', have died a death. Now, certain folks are making a living out of shoe boxes, and a darned good one, judging from all those shoe box containers that suddenly appeared for sale in upmarket catalogues. It was all too obvious, of course, the sort of scenario that makes you want to gnash your teeth and groan I wish I had thought of that.

Consumers were not long to catch on. No-one ever throws away a shoe box now. Every dressing-room has its stack of shoe boxes, the upmarket end-labels lovingly on display.
The mind boggles with wondering what other common household items could be transformed into smart, sought-after, style icons - if Philippe Starck hasn't gotten his oar in first, that is.

The Demise of Woolworths

I've steered clear of the subject until now but, in the heat of the pre-Christmas shopping rush, I've succumbed to pressure to add my voice to the increasingly-clamouring chorus of discontent. I am not nostalgic. I have no memories of wooden floors, and barrels piled with goods for sale. My Woolworths was a quasi-department store with make-up and jewellery posited at the entrance.

Oh, the hours I spent as a gel, agonizing over sparkly eyeshadow and spangly hair barrettes. Over the years, my occasions of going into Woolworths declined and declined, until my forays were reduced to fewer than five per twelvemonth. I only went when all my efforts to find a vital item elsewhere had failed - and even then, I sometimes came out empty-handed. Which is why I'm not exactly screaming and tearing my now barrette-free hair out at the demise of the empire.

In these times of niche-retailing, Woolworths had quite simply lost the plot. Everything it sold; sweets, toys, household goods, CDs and DVDs, stationery, electricals and so on, could be gotten more easily/cheaply/ comfortably elsewhere. Woolies couldn't win on charm and atmosphere. Crude strip-lighting and plastic fixtures will never entice anyone. And forget the bargain-basement ethos they tried to engender. This was lost in the plethora of 'poundsaver' stores that now grace the high street.

There is talk of 'saving' Woolies but dosing a dying patient with aspirin never did work. If it is to survive, Woolies will simply have to decide what sort of animal it wants to be. It will have to log in to some niche market, hitherto untapped, and flog it for all it is worth. And how easy is that?

Theme Parks

Last week, the most extraordinary story broke in the media. Apparently, punters who had paid more than £25 each to visit Lapland were demanding their money back. This was not the town in remotest Finland, however, but a Lapland theme park in the New Forest.

Punters had arrived at the park to find it resembling a muddy building site, alongside some painted hustings and a Christmas bazaar that resembled a car boot sale. It didn’t stay open for long. What has astonished me, however, is that there are two other, more successful ‘Laplands’ in Great Britain, in Kent and in the West Midlands.

I do not knock ersatz experiences, generally. Most developed parts of the world are done up to look like someplace else. Pastiche is here to stay, and that is my point exactly. Christmas is defined by pastiche. At this time of year every department store and shopping mall has its tinsel-strewn, fairy grotto, complete with Santa Claus and elves.

Electronic carols jingle everywhere and there is no shortage of goods for sale. Instead of going to another theme park, why not just gather together any hard-saved cash and take the kids for a jolly fine, seasonal shopping spree? The only appeal, I suppose, is the remoteness of the Lapland venues, the fact of undergoing a journey to a place that is off the everyday beat?

But when I think of what the real Lapland must look like (sadly, never been there) – herds of reindeer in silhouette against a barely-risen sun, loads of real snow and everyone speaking authentic Finnish – I can’t help feeling that the Lapland theme park punters are missing the point.