Argos

Argos

Before Amazon, there was a different sort of shopping phenomenon that took the UK by storm: Argos. In many ways, it was early Amazon — warehouse shopping at its absolute peak. It was the most exciting way to buy anything from toys to cheap jewellery. Rows of laminated catalogues were fixed to desks with small plastic boxes of tiny pencils that were also used when playing golf, and sheets of paper with printed spreadsheets of empty squares waiting to be filled with product numbers. There were little calculators where you could type in your product number to see if the item was in stock, and then off to the cashier to pay for something you had never even seen before. You’d eagerly wait for your number to be called so you could collect the item from a mysterious hatch backed by towering warehouse shelves.

There were no items on display except for a small jewellery counter in the corner housing the exquisite Elizabeth Duke collection beneath a lit glass cabinet. Large gold hoop earrings, doll pendants and sovereign rings glistened from their maroon velvet boxes. One of the first things I would do when the new Argos catalogue came out was turn straight to the jewellery pages to choose which Elizabeth Duke piece I might one day be lucky enough to receive as an engagement ring.

This is what vision boarding looked like in the 90s.

One of the most popular girls in my year at school had a much older boyfriend called Scrout. At the time we all thought it was incredibly cool and impressive that he was in his twenties and dating a schoolgirl. The cherry on the cake was when he bought her an Elizabeth Duke necklace for Christmas. This is what popularity gets you.

Around August, the Christmas catalogue appeared, obviously. This, alongside the Radio Times, practically counted as festive décor. Both would end up covered in graffitied biro circles.

My sister and I would fight over who got to circle the items they most wanted for Christmas first. My sister would usually head for the pages of electronics like, Sega Mega Drives. I would go straight to the girls’ toys pages and be met with an array of pink hope for the future. I clearly remember circling a toy iron, ironing board and washing machine with a matching laundry basket. It seems that vision boarding worked a little too well, albeit delayed by several decades.

If only I’d known back then about my absolute hatred of household chores. On more than one occasion, I’ve worn a swimming costume as substitute underwear because I refused to do a wash and had run out of pants. But as a young girl, I dreamed of an array of household appliances I could practise with before the joy of adulthood and getting to use them for real. It’s odd the boys’ toys pages didn’t have any of this — their loss.

Every year I would circle a Girl’s World. That glorious head and shoulders of a woman with blonde curly hair and vacant eyes where you could practise putting in rollers and applying make-up. I’m curious – if you got one of these did you cut its hairStill to this day I have a genuine fascination with them, but never once was one under the tree for me.

Other circled items that failed to make the cut included a Mr Frosty, a SodaStream and Polly Pocket. Luckily, as an adult, I now get to own a Mr Frosty and a SodaStream to sit in the cupboard doing absolutely nothing.

I also quite liked the look of Sylvanian Families, but they were expensive and my friend Charlotte had the whole set, including the Treehouse. So if I fancied playing with them, my mum would just suggest a playdate at hers. I always came away with the same conclusion: a small velvet-covered shrew was nowhere near as entertaining as what a Barbie and a good imagination could get up to.

Another new way of shopping appeared around this time and it was a top secret that everybody knew about. A magical warehouse that you could only enter if you had a special trade card that, in reality, required absolutely no credentials whatsoever. My dad always looked slightly nervous as he flashed his membership card while we stood nearby anticipating whether we’d be granted entry.

Makro.

Shelves stretched higher than seemed practical and everyday items could be bought in bulk in quantities that appeared capable of lasting an entire lifetime. Everything also seemed unbelievably cheap because the tax wasn’t added until you reached the checkout.

A trip to Makro was treated like a family day out to a theme park. My best friend Fiona was allowed to buy huge plastic tubs of super sour Astro Belts and we would eat as many as we could until we felt sick and the coarse sugar coating had numbed our tongues. We weren’t allowed the jumbo sweet packs, but I do remember one particular visit when we passed a giant mound of fluffy life-size toy dogs. Out of the hundreds stacked up, one caught my eye. It was love at first sight.

I hid him amongst a pile of kitchen roll and plucked up the courage to ask if I could possibly get something so elaborate. That day I went home with Wilfrid and he became one of my most treasured teddies. He was the perfect shape to nestle your head into at night and sat beside Snowy, my beloved cat teddy.

Costco feels like the modern equivalent of Makro, but I still get exactly the same excited buzz whenever we visit and proudly leave with 340 toilet rolls and 54 fresh cookies that expire the next day.

I’m glad small pleasures still make me happy, and I even got my original wedding ring from Argos!

Now that’s how you do a vision board.