Swimming pool acoustics. ATMs. Escalators. Nothing of interest anywhere. I bet they have nothing by Durkheim in the bookshop. (I'll ask for the laugh.) People, unattractively good looking and numerous. Hollister. Harvey Nichols. House of Fraser. Nama. Austere couture. I could have sworn I saw an imperial stormtrooper. My mate calls this place the Death Star. I met her for coffee on the fourth floor balcony. I couldn't see her and that's how I knew it was her. Her voice emitting behind a tower of purchases. She spoke of fit celebrities and favoured restaurants. She cast doubt on welfare recipients. She made frequent mention of her sundry achievements. 'I guess as a person, you could say I'm kind of driven.' And that's when I felt driven to do something.
I stood on my chair and jumped on the table. Then I placed a foot on the balcony rail. She screamed beyond her shopping as I escaped the Empire's clutches, plummeting down and away from consumer dismay. As Han Solo once said – 'boring conversation anyway'.