There’s only one place to be at twenty to ten on a Sunday morning.
The car park of the Huddersfield branch of Wickes.
It doesn’t open until 10, but we didn’t let that deter us from leaving far too early to get there. No, we arrived and drove all the way up to almost in front of the doors and just sat and waited. I think it’s safe to say I have never been so mortified in my life. I mean, yeah, I’ve been to places before they opened before. But not a Wickes. Wickes is like a grubbier version of B&Q in my eyes – it’s DIY but it’s DIY pre-coated in grime for your convenience. Look like you’ve been working hard by transferring the muck from the product to your clothes. It’s that kind of place.
Anyway, we were twenty minutes early.
So we sat there. And, surprisingly, more and more people turned up. Apparently it really is the place to be on a Sunday.
Although mainly if you’re very, very old and wearing comfortable shoes.
One man pulled up and got of his car accompanied by a dog, which he then proceeded to exercise in the car park, throwing a ball around for it. I’m not sure if he’d been told to take the dog out and thought that it was a prime excuse to go to Wickes and buy some mucky wood or what, but there he was bouncing a ball around the car park while his dog ran around doing its best not to be runover by the constant stream of cars filled with people who were all too early for Wickes.
And when the shutters did go up at 10, it was like a bloody stampede. It was as if someone had found a herd of cattle and thrown a stick of dynamite behind them. Just a beige-tinged rush to the door as millons of old people flocked like moths to a flame, all clad in their decorating jumpers and black shoes. We had to try and avoid being caught up in this Sanatogen-fueled tsunami. If we’d opened the car door at the wrong time we could have hooked an elderly person in comfortable slacks.
It makes the people who travel on the bus look normal…
And that’s really saying somethng.