I’m a nineteen year old male, shopping is most certainly not high on the priority list, so when I do venture out it’s a quick in and out; a well rehearsed manoeuvre. Today was the day I dreaded; having to buy some new trainers. After finally admitting to myself my current pair, with only half a sole, were no longer of any use. James (my next door neighbour) and I wandered out into the treacherous forest that is known simply as Leicester City centre. With no particular pair of trainers in mind, but a style I wasn’t going to let go of, shopping was very hit and miss. We started in TK-max, a firm favourite but no luck there. Size 11 seemed to be out of fashion. Next, a discount shoe shop but after wading through about a dozen boxes I couldn’t find my size in the model on display, nor could I in fact find anything that even resembled the pair.

Our final destination was sports world. It was the wild card, I had never been in before but it came highly recommended from James. Low and behold amongst the racks and piles of chavtastic gear there was in fact a rack of acceptable and very well priced footwear. I took down a shoe and inspected it, perfect! Now, to actually buy them. This, in my experience, tends to be the easiest part of the ordeal but not today, not in sports world. After tracking down a member of staff he duly went and fetched a pair of size 11s. After trying them I was disappointed so replaced them and found another pair. By the time I had turned around the member of staff had disappeared. On to number two, this time it was a young woman who did not look best pleased when I asked her for a pair. She called some staff on a radio and told me to wait where I found them, 15 minutes past and I was still stood there holding a size six while James lay comatose on the floor.

We decided a tour of the shop might yield some benefit, so we wandered off in a random direction. Amongst the racks of the far east corner of the shop, where many a man would have feared to trespass, we found another member of staff crouched and trying to look busy. Third time’s the charm; he once again disappeared to fetch me a pair and told me to meet him where I had found them. On the mammoth trek back to the corner of the store we must have walked past about 8 members of staff, one who I believed to be the manager, all doing absolutely sod all and with customers all waving shoes in the air.

This pair, luckily, fitted the bill. I thanked our staff member duly and he took the shoes to the checkout but before I could even speak he had disappeared behind a wall of sleeveless tops. Now onto the final hurdle; paying. This is where I give the shop money, so you’d have thought they may have been slightly more eager but alas no, the lady in front of me was handed her receipt and then the woman on the checkout turned around and walked off leaving me standing there gasping. I was now tempted to make a run for it but trying not to exacerbate the hoody wearing teenager stereotypes I decided paying was probably the better course of action. I waited and waited and then eventually the woman returned, apparently not to serve me, but she reluctantly did after my glares.

One hour and £20 spent; one pair of trainers gained. I left the store feeling I had really accomplished an epic task. Alas, that is Sports World for you and the future of British Retail!