The Prestige oracles

The Secret Scribbler explains why local retail staff are so entertaining

NIGHTCLUB DOORMEN SCARE me. It’s a phobia that goes back 25 years, to a time when a doorman threatened to punch me in the face.

He didn’t, thankfully.

But he did usher my drunken self towards the street, where I tripped, slapped my face against a pavement, and lost a tooth.

Those hazy days of intoxicated youth have long passed, but the irrational fear of well-dressed employees standing outside their premises never really left me. And it’s due entirely to our uniquely Singaporean shopping experience.

Staff employees like to stand outside their shops, especially out in the heartlands.

Jewellery shops, shoe shops and cosmetics and beauty salon-type shops tend to be the more familiar culprits, presumably on the lookout for a bare-footed Mr T impersonator who fancies a manicure.

Of course, tailors pioneered this unconventional sales technique. For decades now, these chaps have sat outside their shops in the older malls around Orchard Road, with a tape measure around their necks and promising all kinds of special services.

Heaven knows what tourists must make of these propositions.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve passed a well-dressed gentleman, sitting high on his stool, as he muttered: “Suit for you, sir, special price. You need a suit, sir?”

Depending on the inflection, that last sentence always fluctuated between a question and a statement. He wasn’t merely enquiring. He was telling. I could almost hear him saying: “You need a suit, sir. There are long-tailed macaques better dressed than you.”

Retailers haven’t given up on me or anyone else who passes their empty stores. Empty stores are often the impetus for staff to stand outside the glassy doors in a bid to pull customers inside.

I often wonder if retail classes are being conducted somewhere with enthusiastic trainers saying: “Remember, an empty store is a bad store. So here’s an ingenious tip. Stand OUTSIDE your store! Look like a nightclub doorman. Underline the store’s emptiness by showing passers-by that the store is, quite literally, empty. And then, tell them they need a new pair of shoes.”

My local shoe retailer has tried to sell me a new pair so many times, I’m now beginning to question the quality of my flip-flops. Morning, noon or night, she can be found in front of her empty shop and staring down at my toe fluff.

When I was a teenager, I worked in a couple of retail outlets and an empty store certainly wasn’t my cue to stand outside. It was a chance to slide down the polished aisles in my socks.

But it’s not just shoe sellers or tailors. Jewellery sellers appear to spend more time outside their shops than inside them. Impeccably dressed, a couple of guys usually stand outside my local jewellery shop, armed with a stack of leaflets about discounted heart pendants and ankle bracelets, clearly the very items missing from my life.

Without fail, they always hand me a leaflet, presumably because they’ve confused me for Jennifer Lopez.

And yet behind them, rows of glass cases filled with expensive jewellery are left alone, ignored and unprotected. In Singapore, this is standard sales practice.

In other countries, this is an armed robbery waiting to happen.

Step inside an empty store, on the other hand, and everything changes.

I’m immediately added to Interpol’s Most Wanted list. I’m being followed and hunted at every turn. I’m inside a Sting song. Every breath I take. Every move I make. They’ll be watching me and asking if I’ve seen their two-for-one boxer briefs.

Clothes stores are a particular favourite. Unfold anything and it’s re-folded within seconds. At one particular clothing outlet, I once spent a happy half an hour being chased around by a folding fanatic. If I so much as looked at a T-shirt, she stepped in and folded it.

I didn’t want to leave partly because she was so entertaining, but mostly because it was raining.

I’ve never encountered such a fabulous clothes-folding fetish before.

In future, I hope she stalks me all the way home, where I can steer her towards my pile of ironing.