. The most persuasive argument for any activity is that everyone is doing it – and here everyone is shopping

An Extract From - The Age of Absurdity, by Michael Foley

This is a fairy land, never buffeted by wind or lashed by rain, without clocks, closed doors, beggars, litter, graffiti, garbage, vermin or dark alleys, where the temperature is always pleasantly constant and the light evenly bright and the Pipes of Pan vie in sweetness with the tinkling of euphonious fountains at the intersections of the broad esplanades. On all sides shining emporia display garments, shoes, lingerie, creams, lotions, fragrances, chocolates, toys, mobile phones, games, televisions, flowers, music players, jewellery, sports gear and digital picture frames restlessly changing content every few seconds...


...everything about a shopping mall is designed to encourage the feeling that not to want anything would be atrociously churlish. Firstly, a mall eliminates distractions such as depressing weather and accusing clocks. Then, if it is a multi-storey building, a soaring atrium or central well makes an immediate, profound impression. Planners, from the architects of Gothic cathedrals to those of contemporary corporate headquarters, have understood that the key to inspiring awe is redundant space, especially overhead. Any structure with its own firmament must have been created by God.

To enhance the religious atmosphere there may be background piped music as soothing as organ chords. And there will certainly be many fellow worshippers to provide reassurance. The most persuasive argument for any activity is that everyone is doing it – and here everyone is shopping. The company of the faithful is immensely comforting but, as in church, there is no need to engage. The real engagement is with the icons in the window displays, promising to confer distinction, enhanced status and sexual attractiveness. These material goods even enhance the religious feeling. Brain scans have shown that high end brands evoke the same neural response as religious images; that, shocking and lamentable as it may be, an iPod has the same effect as Mother Teresa. Also, the window s displaying these material icons extend from floor to ceiling, completely exposing the bright interiors, and the entrances are wide and doorless, so the instinctive fear of entering an unfamiliar space is overcome. Inside, young, attractive sales staff approach, seeking eye contact with friendly encouraging smiles, creating the illusion of youth and attractiveness in the shopper. The loud soul music suggests a bar or club where mutual attraction can blossom but, unlike the brutally competitive bars and clubs, here there is no possibility of rejection. Spending money is the easiest orgasm.

A piece of the past

Mum and Dad first ran into each other in the summer of 1966. She was a girl called Christine Jane Emery, a former pupil of St Paul’s school in London and the daughter of a City gentleman who had a large say in the world’s copper. He was a journalist, working for the Evening Post, the fiercest anti-government newspaper in the country.


She was also secretary of the Defence and Aid Fund, which supplied cash for the defence of political prisoners in South Africa.

So this seemed to both parties like a reasonable match.

My mother would return from work and tell my father all about her day, and the next day he would pass the message on exclusively to the readership of the Evening Post.

By the time he had promised not to write about her anymore, it was too late. The Defence and Aid Fund had become too successful, foreign contributions allowed it to hire the top lawyers in the country and the top lawyers were getting too many non-whites acquitted.

These were good deeds, indeed, and in South Africa no good deeds went unpunished. The organisation was banned and BOSS – the Bureau of State Security – moved in.

A week later Garth received a tip off that BOSS were going to arrest Christine under the 90 Days Legislation and had evidence that could keep her in jail for up to 5 years, which was plenty long enough. He immediately dispatched her to London.

Sure enough, Boss agents called at four o’clock the next morning. They didn’t knock on the door of the flat in those days. ‘Where is Christine?’ they said.

‘Oh, her mother has taken ill and she had to fly home.’

A few looks convinced my Dad he should leave, too, and he flew to London to work for Reuters, who wanted to send him to Vietnam. Just before he was due to leave the then Anglo American asked him to help start a national newspaper in Zambia and train African sub-editors. They offered him a lot more money than he would have got in Saigon. And, anyway, the guy who went to Vietnam in his place was killed within a week of arriving - on an official assignment with other journalists. Lucky for him. Lucky for me, too.

They loved the country and lost no time in meeting anti-South African government groups and attending meeting after meeting. One day she complained: ‘You know I wasn’t paid for those last few weeks at the Defence and Aid Fund.’

‘You should write to Mr Vorster (the former Minister of Justice) and demand your money,’

She did and amazingly enough was sent a cheque drawn on the official government bank, the South African Reserve Bank.

That night she attended another meeting in Kitwe. But she opened her bag and the cheque fell out, on to the table. The others at the meeting looked at the cheque and then at her with their mouths open.

She was in tears when she got back. ‘They think I am a spy for BOSS,’ she said. They ostracised her from that moment on. Dad tried to talk to them, but they wouldn’t budge. I guess they were scared too.

Mum found other interests and other friends but years later, before she became extremely ill, she said she often wondered if the African National Congress had been falsely told she was once a spy for the Afrikaner government.

‘I don’t really care,’ she said, ‘but I would hate Nelson Mandela thinking I wasn’t on his side.’ She died, without ever knowing the answer.