Shop Talk

Every weekend Tony Robinson and a man in a sweater his nan knitted come on the telly and set about digging up a few borders and a stretch of lawn behind a bungalow at the end of a quiet cul de sac as the owners, a grinning George and mild-mannered Margot, look on with a mixture of optimism and glee. These middle-class bi-weekly ramblers in their twilight years ask simple inquisitive questions as they milk every second of the fifteen minutes of fame they will bore neighbours and new acquaintances on Saga cruises with stories of for the rest of their lives. They even make cooing noises as Tony pretends asks whether the Romans ate burgers as he tries to the play the part of laymen archaeologist even though he’s been on more ‘digs’ than Indiana Jones.

Each week they set out to prove Caesar lived near Slough, or that the Normans built Norman-style shopping centres based on a design of concentric circles. Each week I’m left wondering why they buried every fragment of broken pot in the ground, and how they managed to kill, cook and eat a mammoth before they’d invented any kind of rudimentary tools.

I have a feeling if Tony and his Swapshop-styled pal spent a day interviewing the people in Argos they’d have enough material on primitive civilisations and bare-bone societies to fill an entire channel from now until 2012.

Argos is a unique business model. If walk in to any of the finest establishments in the world a sales assistant will immediately come to assist me. The clues in the name really. If I walk into Harrods I expect a represent of Mr Al Fayad himself to help me pick out the same chutney Her Majesty eats with her crumpets. If I walk into Sacs on Fifth Avenue I expect someone to help me pick out the latest outfits as worn by Carrie Bradshaw or Bono.

Argos must, therefore, think of itself as some kind of demi-God of the retail world – here is a shop where you have to do all of the work. Walk into any shop in the world and you’ll be greeted by displays and carefully stacked shelves. In Argos you have to peer and squint at a book heftier than the complete works of Chekhov, at a picture of a garden shed smaller than a postage stamp.

Only once you written your number down on that little slip, queued for the first time, and handed over the cash are on the way to being able to see the goods. A quick sneaky peek behind the collection desk afforded me a grand view of an Aladdin’s cave of merchandise. Shelves worthy of the Bodleian library crammed full of things money simply can’t buy without a ten minute wait. Plasma tvs, rocking chairs and tartan slippers stand proudly shoulder-to-shoulder on dusty shelves. Occasionally you might see a glimpse of a shadowy figure, running from shelf to shelf in the half-light, foraging for fancy goods.

Of course, there was the customary wait whilst I waited for my order to come up on the little screen. Fat women in tracksuits, children stuffing their faces with pasties, teenagers with more piercings than a colander and middle-aged men in beige all sat on cafeteria chairs staring up at the monitor like last-chance gamblers in a betting shop hoping their last £10 on horse 11 will be put to good use. We’re all waiting for our number to come up, but I suspect for some that had a slightly more metaphoric meaning than others. Suddenly I realise the ingeniousness of the founders of Argos, who had the foresight to name their shop after Odysseus’ dog, who patiently waited 20 years for his master’s return.

Finally my little plastic-wrapped package slid down the rollers to see it’s first signs of daylight for some time. It has its customary little square piece of paper sellotaped just below the name on the box, so the hunter-gatherers of Argos can tell what it is – they seem to work in numbers rather than words. My sale assistant, ‘Sian’ forces a grunt out passed the pen in her mouth to acknowledge my existence. I can’t help wondering if this is the frontline of the workforce, the friendly faces, who or what do they have working behind the scenes?

She stamps the papers which release my purchase into the outside world. She asks me if I was having a good day, whether there was anything else she can do for me today, whether I would like a bag, and that she hopes I have a great day. At least I assume she does. It came out as a single sound – a strange mixture of phlegm-disloging cough and primordial grunt. I knew Tony hadn’t made it here yet.