The London Shopping Centre

You're about to enter a Westfield's shopping centre. Perhaps you're trying to find a gift for your niece? Maybe you're looking for a new belt to stop you accidentally mooning old ladies? Are you attending a wedding next weekend, and needing to buy a gift and something sparkly to wear? Or are you thinking of replacing those tired-looking cushions? For all I know, you're looking to treat yourself to some sexy stockings... Look, I don't know your business, but either way, there you are, waiting for the automatic doors to open. Oh, you have to pull them open yourself. Idiot.

Anyway, you're finally inside, squinting away while you get used to the intense glow of white walls and glass ceilings. But don't stand still for too long though, otherwise you'll find yourself being thwacked with shopping bags, and shunted about by shoulders. Of course, you know what shop you want to go to, but where is it? There are over 150,000 square metres of shop, over three floors, at your toetips. It's at this point you consider going home and buying everything online for the rest of your life. But, hey, you're here now. You knew it wasn't going to be easy.

And so, you wander for what feels like hours. You've depleted your water supplies, you have blisters on your blister's blister, you're hopelessly lost and still haven't purchased a thing. This would have been so much easier if you had learnt the native language - whatever that is - so you could ask for directions. Yet you carry on walking, with the sense of constantly being watched.

Incidentally, is it just me, or do shopping centres look a lot like friendlier prisons? Not just because they're overcrowded, their abundance of security cameras, or the amount of security guards milling about. But it's open spaces. Walkways allow people to walk to the shops/cells, but the big open spaces in between allow one to observe all three levels from one viewing point.

Anyway, so you're starting to miss your cat at home, whilst being filled with the sense of being watched, and fearful of someone spitting on you from an upper level. Eeeyouch! You've been hit on the back of the ankle. As a true Brit, you carry on and pretend it never happened. Argh! Hit again. This time turn to see what is attacking you. It's a native, pushing their young in a red plastic car. Do you confront them, telling them to watch what they're doing? No. You shake your head slightly and step aside, and pull your sock down. Just as you expected: blood. Now you're wishing you went to the Doctor's first and got the necessary injections.

Ah, but look, there's that shop you've been looking for. But oh, they're out of stock of that thing you wanted to buy. Now, where's the way out?

Westfield, Stratford

A British Prison