The whole of yesterday evening was wasted marching around both 'Sportsworld' stores on Oxford Street. I arrived in fairly good spirits, although resigned to having to spend my hard-earned cash on a pair of hideous trainers and some sports clothing for the exercise class I am attending with
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saiira in Waltham Forest tonight, but by the time I managed to escape, I had not only lost the will to live but felt incredibly unclean at having spent so long in the company of the evil sportpigs.
Sportsworld is pretty hardcore, especially for someone who only used to run on the hockey pitch to get away from the people who tried to hit the ball in her direction (what the hell kind of person would actually try to intercept the ball?! One minute you're leading your nice peaceful life (albeit wearing the most appalling clothes which are unflattering on anyone, and stuck in the middle of a muddy field) and the next this tiny ball has somehow come into your posession and a gaggle of crazed females are trying to kill you with sticks. If you're into that, you can bloody well pay for it like everyone else) and used to be popular in gym class as she'd let all the enthusiastic freaks go in front of her so she wouldn't be forced to jump over a box three times her height, aided only by a springboard, which is a low-rent version of a trampoline. I don't understand sporty people. Fine, you've climbed a wall. What have you acheived? Aside from being at the top of a wall, nothing. You have not progressed in life. After all that sweat and effort, all that happens is that you have to come down again. Your complete disregard for logical thought disturbs me.
Anyway, I digress. Sportsworld. A labyrinth of evil. Not content with peddling everything from Nike to Le Coq Sportif (bahahahaha! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Sorry.) at 'sale' prices (I purchased my tracksuit bottoms for £3.29 from £10.99, and my top for £5.79 from £18, although it is completely beyond me why someone would pay £18 for that) they have to do it over three floors, teeming with employees screeching into their walkie talkies. You have to push through rails of tracksuits and football socks whilst the PA system pumps out what I can only imagine is Bottom of the Pops 1978, and when you ask a question the staff have to shout over the bloody racket and make you wait for fifteen minutes while they try to convey a message to their collegue (who is only about ten metres away) through the goddamn walkie talkie. When you helpfully suggest they just walk over there and find out for themselves, they inform you it's company procedure and they all have to stay in their designated areas. The one and only redeeming feature of the place is that their uniforms are red.
Having spent a good twenty minutes explaining to the nice lady (loudly, over Barry fscking Manilow) that although I trusted her that the trainers she was showing me were indeed as mind-blowingly scientifically advanced as she claimed and would turn me into Paula Radcliffe (I had to look that up - I was going to put Yates) I still didn't want to spend £180 on a pair of trainers that would never be seen or worn outside a gym, I finally managed to find a pair of black Sketchers which were actually quite nice, only to discover that they had run out of my size. In the end, I managed to acquire a suitable pair for £27.99, which wasn't too bad. Although Saiira tried to convince me that what I really needed to make my life complete were some Reebok Classics, I resisted and came away with some white and sparkly pink Sketchers which are still pretty vile as far as footwear goes, but don't make me feel as disgusted with myself as owning a pair of Reebok Classics. I think I'd have to join a support group or something. I'm also the proud owner of a pair of black tracksuit bottoms that are slightly too long for me, and a white sporty-looking sleeveless top.
I'm actually quite looking forward to tonight, but seeing as I'm incredibly unfit, I expect it will kill me. If I am still alive, I will report tomorrow...
