The go-to store of the British middle class can’t blame Covid or deserted High Streets or Russian hackers for their current woes. I came to that conclusion after 54 minutes trying to buy something very ordinary.
It all started earlier today, at 9:31am, while delivering the Stewkley Grapevine, our brilliant-if-I-say-so-myself village newsletter. Since the lockdown in spring, as opposed to the lockdown coming up, or the mandatory quarantine currently experienced by my sister in Barnsley (Barnsley. Yes. I know) because one of her work colleagues tested positive, I’ve taken a black plastic sack with me and litter-picked the verges and hedgerows. If I were Prime Minister (which is the title of a future blog), I would bring back capital punishment for litter louts. As fast as I clean everything up, more yobs, slags and low-lifes desecrate the countryside rather than take their detritus back to the cesspits they call home.
Anyway, I could see yet another Red Bull can under an old hedge of hawthorn, blackthorn, bramble and dog rose (basically everything and anything with thorns). I crouched down and stretched as far as I could until my fingers could just get hold of the can. I lost my balance a little pulling back and landed with a big ouch on my big butt on a big thorn, and when I struggled to get up, I ripped my jeans and I don’t mean at the knees.
I was quite cross because while I’ve had these jeans for several years, I’m not bored with them. They are very comfortable, including when stuffed into boots, and I can (or could) still get away with wearing them out (supermarket rather than Bond Street shopping) as they looked reasonably smart to someone with dark glasses that had fogged up behind a mask.
I went straight onto the John Lewis website to buy a replacement pair of denim jeans. And the games began. The first thing I did was search for “jeggings” (for the uninitiated, that’s a cross between jeans and leggings, or snug-fitting jeans that stretch), only to be presented with a wide selection of maternity tights. I didn’t understand that either.
With that sinking-feeling already, I decided to scroll through the whole jeans collection. Big mistake. Huge (as Julia Roberts said in Pretty Woman, having purchased much more stylish clothes than I was looking at). I could choose from straight, slim-fit, skinny or super-skinny; boyfriend or girlfriend; denim, corduroy or velvet. Excuse me but when did denim jeans stop being denim jeans? In addition there was leather, faux leather or leather-look. What’s the difference? Doesn’t matter because they all looked slutty – something Kim Kardashian would go for.
Colour? How about dark blue, navy, mid-blue, indigo, vintage, authentic or washed, plus bottle green, pink, red or yellow.
What. Is. So. Difficult. About. Blue. Denim. Jeans. That stretch a little?
Eventually, I found a pair that fitted the basic, simple, uncomplicated, traditional bill, and went to buy them. But then I had to choose between regular, ankle-grazer, cropped or long. I chose regular. My size had sold out. I tried long. Only two left in stock. So in case some other middle-aged, middle-class, desperate housewives swiped them from under my nose, I decided not to delay and look for a top to go with them but to check out without further ado.
If everyone doesn’t buy one item because they’ve had so much trouble navigating the easy bit, then that would affect profits. Wouldn’t it? I might not do tech but I can do money.
John Lewis, it seems, can no longer do either.
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