Carol’s Column

A mal jol in the mall to mark millennium’s end

As the end of the second millennium and the beginning of the third draws nigh, the more important inventions and happenings of the past century dance across my mind.

Such as the shopping mall.

Those of historical, political or cultural bent have been praating aan about the momentous changes effected by various people or events on the past century.

Mandela, Gorbachev, Hitler or Churchill. The fall of communism and fascism. The advent of flying, penicillin and the Pill. And so on.

For me, in a most personal way, shopping is one of the critical happenings which has fashioned my years during the past 40 or so years. And through the heady experience of shopping, I have witnessed change, tragedy and joy.

I have seen the demise of the small trader with his or her general trading store in which you could buy anything from a can opener to a wedding outfit, the change of once-loved small specialist shops such as the pharmacist who sold you sore-throat tablets and cough mixtures, the shoe maker who re-heeled your shoes.

Today everyone is consumer friendly. The pharmacist sells shoes, while the shoemaker undertakes dry cleaning, alterations, tailoring and sells headache tablets.

My own personal epiphany has been the discovery of the super-shopping mall, those vast emporiums of heady, uncontrollable, capitalist extravagance.

Those places of the people, for the people, where the people mingle in common activity, spend in equality and bond over shared experiences such as the shortage of lettuce or the lack of size 38C bras in stock.

Because my children - specifically my female progeny - is older now, I had forgotten the ecstasy of shopping with a daughter.

The agonies of finding a midnight blue top that did not exist, the excitement of trying on 321 garments in an hour, the relentless eight-hour stints to purchase a specific pair of black-strap sandals with clunky heels, the exhaustion of standing in stool-free cubicles for hours on end, the endless disagreement about every possible item of clothing.

And then this weekend, my daughter Nicky came home for a visit, as did Lisa, our daughter-in-law to be. Both here briefly from overseas, they plucked me from my book and before I could even fluff up my 73 remaining hairs, I found myself in a cavernous shopping centre frenetic with Christmas spending fever. There was worse to come.

Before I could adjust the lace on my takkies, I was surrounded by sensuous chiffon gowns glittering with delicate beadwork. In this exclusive top designer's boutique, they had, Lisa informed me, discovered the most perfect dress to wear to her coming wedding.

My days of skinny elegance are long gone and today I resemble a ravioli rather than a spaghetti. Bulges battled with beads and sadly, the glorious chosen creation was not for me. Even Lisa remarked that I looked like a chiffon-encased hot air balloon.

But the scent of the chase was in the air and undaunted, the two maidens strode forth into the bowels of the mall with me like a short-legged warthog trotting behind.

It was exhilarating, while they changed from evening dress to running shorts to casual gear to bikini, I did my thing and within an hour acquired silver glitter nail polish with matching glitter lipstick and cheek highlighting cream, a purple feather boa, a self-stick faux diamond to decorate my left nostril and lime thigh-high boots (on sale).

"Oh, Ma," sighed my daughter. "Oh, Fred," sighed Lisa (she calls me Fred).

Huh! This will be the only millennium in my lifetime and I'm celebrating big time!

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