VERITY LUSH: Leave me to browse the make-up counter in peace

Mo Farrah after missing out on a gold medal'''''' Picture: Adam Davy
Mo Farrah after missing out on a gold medal'''''' Picture: Adam Davy
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I suspect this is just me but you may experience it too, and possibly it’s more likely if you’re female, or if you visit make-up counters whatever gender you may be.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve become increasingly irritated by shop assistants who collar you the second you’ve approached the counter.

This must be some kind of store or company policy and not the fault of the shop assistant, so the blame doesn’t lie with those poor souls, some of whom probably loath the necessity to approach every customer that breathes in their direction.

But it drives me crackers.

There is one particular make-up counter where all you need do is glance in the direction of a mascara, and an assistant will be out faster than you can say lipstick.

They’ll deliver the same line about whether you’ve used their products before, and can they help you.

I realise this is all to be polite and connect with the customer, but I simply can’t stand not being given at least a couple of minutes alone to look before I am pounced upon.

Or to even be given the space to decide myself if I am looking purposefully, or if I’d have moved on already.

In some clothing stores there is an air that is akin to patronisation, where you are made to feel as though you really look as if you need help.

As if you’re so appallingly clad already that you simply cannot be trusted to choose further attire for yourself on your own.

Once upon a time (I am in my forties so this is going back a while), this kind of customer service simply did not exist in the UK.

It was generally perceived as being American, right up there with the, ‘Have a nice day!’ chant that we Brits used to take the wee out of.

Alas, no longer.

For some untold reason, companies worldwide have clearly chosen to make their employees menace customers to raise sales.

Odd, because I have frequently left the counter as soon as I’m approached, politely deflecting the pestering, and taking my cash elsewhere.


Having purchased new school shoes for my eldest daughter this week, all ready for her September start into secondary school, I felt a moment

of fleeting terror upon being told that my little girl needed a size 5.

I mean, what?

A size 5 is a grown-up’s shoe size.

I wear a 5 or 6 for goodness sake.

So how on earth can one of my babies also be sporting a shoe in that size?

Time truly punched me in the face with that one.

Not only is my eldest nearly as tall as me, but she is nearly ready to shop in young adult clothing ranges.

I fear she is attempting a small spread of her independent wings at any given opportunity.



Ifelt a touch of sadness when Mo Farrah didn’t win gold in his final race at the IAAF World Championships.

I think the glorious golden shadow of 2012 made us all feel a little nostalgic, as if we could replicate that British pride again.

The opening and closing ceremonies of the Olympics were truly awesome, and forgotten by no-one.

It’s rare in the UK that we display our patriotism.

We are often reserved as a nation but perhaps there is a balance to be had here, in order to display solidarity and pride.

I’m not suggesting we all parade around in Union Flags, but celebrating ourselves as a nation once in a while and instilling pride for our history and our future, wouldn’t go amiss.