There is something satisfying about clacking around the beautiful wooden floors of Liberties on a Friday evening looking at clothing too expensive to buy made of impractical diaphanous fabrics that are tied onto rails with security tags that chirrup like birds when they are stretched too far (overly sensitive I'm told by a shop assistant).
In shoes a man sits and reads a paper. I try to decide which woman browsing around the shelves at the edge of the room he is with. Quite uncertain. From the balcony upstairs I spy a shop assistant having a brief intimate chat with him whilst looking furtively over her shoulder and toying with her hair. Waiting for home time then rather than bored on a monster shopping spree.
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