Sales addicts scramble for bargains
The reluctant shopper took two steps back, shoved his hands in his pockets and shook his head firmly. "I'm not going in there," he said. "It's scary."
The teeming crowd in the Next store in Dublin were not really that scary but the fact they'd been there since 5am was definitely a Stephen King storyline.
"We have regular customers who are looking forward to this all over Christmas," insisted floor manager Taso Mihalakis. "They don't mind that it's early. They see items before the sale that they want so they know exactly what they're looking for. It's fun for them."
The window dresser of the nearby Club menswear boutique was also having fun enjoying a day off. For there were no clothes in the window just two girls seated behind the glass playing traditional Irish airs on violins.
"It's like Amsterdam. They have women in the windows there," a fatherly looking figure mused as he passed by.
Clery's in Dublin had their now traditional offer of a free breakfast for the first 100 customers through the door, but there were double that number on the doorstep when the shutters went up, and by lunchtime management were estimating some 20,000 would shop their way through the building by close of business.
Lest the annual shopathon be considered a modern phenomenon, however, Galway city draper Anthony Ryan, whose store was enjoying its 93rd year of Christmas sales, testified that sales addiction is nothing new.
Not even the browsing and buying techniques have changed over the years. "When the doors opened, they all walked quickly by the smaller items such as handbags and accessories at the door and headed upstairs for the larger items such as coats and suits.
"It has always been the same. It has always been a feeding frenzy," Mr Ryan added.
At Arthur's Quay Shopping Centre in Limerick, security supervisor Dermot Frost was trying to remember what the floor looked like. "The whole place is hopping. You can't see the floor for people," he said. Dermot opened the car park at 7.30am and immediately had cars driving in.
"One couple said they were going to queue for Argos. It's madness. I was over at Tony Connolly menswear and you can't get in the door. The car park is full and nobody is just window shopping they all have bags of stuff."
But were there any bargains? Well, Currys electrical chain had a Philips home cinema system with €270 lopped off its original €700 price tag and, with six speakers, guaranteed to drown out rows over which movie to watch.
In that beacon of good taste, Brown Thomas, you could get a Paul Smith headscarf in early Eighties peach with a shopping list printed on it just like mother used to write. At half price it was only €60.
Meanwhile, Kylie Minogue's autobiography, La La La, was selling at less than half price at just €12.99 in Waterstone's, proving modern pop lyrics are best gyrated to, not read. Perhaps if her hot pants had written their own life story . .
