Shoppers rushed in to get Black Friday special deals at the Mall of Africa in Gauteng in previous years. (Photo: Felix Dlangamandla / Beeld / Gallo Images) 
I think there is a small chance we’ll bump into each other in a shopping mall tomorrow. It is one of the busiest shopping days of the year (the others are usually the Saturday before Christmas and Christmas Eve).
In the spirit of preparing you for this ordeal (don’t lie – you’re secretly looking forward to it) I felt I should inform you about the ghost of my shopping trip past.
Recently I found I needed certain items quite urgently, including clothes for me and gifts for friends and their children. Needing expert help, my wife and I found ourselves in one of the three malls amid the catastrophic parking that is Joburg’s Rosebank shopping complex.
I don’t know if it’s because my mom always told me to put my hands behind my back as a kid, but I seem to always feel slightly guilty looking at things in a shop. I want to touch and prod them. I have intense curiosity about how they’re put together, and where they’re made.
In the time I’d determined Chappies-design bags are not made in Bangladesh or China (it seems they are in fact made here, from recycled plastic bottles, nogal) my wife had surveyed what was available, made selections and worked out whether it was good value.
I was reminded, again, that sometimes one can be in the presence of shopping greatness.
It was in paying that I got more involved, and that’s when the trouble started.
In the urge to add value to the expedition I thrust my phone forward to tap for payment. After a series of beeps the shop assistant asked me for my phone number.
My wife smelt trouble immediately.
”Why?” I asked. “What do you want my number for?”
“If I don’t have your number I can’t give you a refund if there is a problem” said the assistant.
By this stage my wife had realised I had shifted from not-knowing-what-I-was-doing- mode into talk-radio-mode.
“That’s not what the Consumer Protection Act says,” I responded. “You have to give me a refund if I bring back the item, I don’t even need a slip.”
One of the problems with arguing for a living is that sometimes you argue for keeps, even when it is not necessary. It’s a sort of instinct, and one I’ve been warned about. But I think I must have come across as unnecessarily aggressive.
And, of course, I was not going to give on the point. It drives me mad that shops ask for your number.
Once, when making a purchase at a well-known beauty salon chain, I refused to give my number when they asked for it. They said they needed my number to make the purchase. I was more than happy to return the item to its proper place and walk out.
I felt I had acted on the merits. But I think the people to whom I’ve recounted that story just thought I was an arse.
But I was definitely in the right, and we have got too used to just giving out our phone numbers to anyone who wants them.
Now, after my wife had given her number, it was time to move on.
By this stage she had already suggested that “Stephen’s trip to Rosebank” might be a good After The Bell.
Feeling like I now needed to be on my best behaviour, we entered what I suppose I should call a sort of men’s clothing store. It’s a brand that sells things well adapted to the physique of a mature male.
As a sign of their intense generosity some of their shirts even claim to be for the “muscular fit”.
I’m pleased to report that, by and large, I conducted myself with decorum.
Once we’d made the selections, I got my phone out to pay, and was ready for the inevitable question.
Instead of being aggressive, I said, with a warm smile: “I would rather not give it out and I don’t think you really need it.”
This was cheerfully accepted, talk-radio-mode was averted and all was well.
Right up to the point when, out of nowhere, the shop assistant folded the shirts, and then for no reason whatsoever, suddenly SPRAYED SCENT ON THEM!!!
I immediately felt I’d reverted to my olfactory setting!
I wanted to let my emotions take over and demand why you would do that without asking? Who wants someone else’s scent all over their brand-new clothes? And to do it as routine? REALLY!
Thankfully, I was a mature shopper by now and was able to simply sigh, take my package and leave.
I do wonder how often the person who sees something being sprayed on their brand-new package reacts like that.
And so, as you prepare your provisions for your shopping expedition tomorrow, get the car pointed in the right direction for an extra 30-second head start and pack all-weather clothes, I urge you to be prepared for anything.
From illegal questions to strange scents and Chappies-pattern bags, anything can happen.
Who knows, you might even get a good deal. DM