An expert shoplifter

My invisibility cloak was an old, olive green maternity coat. In it, I stole to ease my shame.

The rain dulls south London through the supermarket windows. My 3 year old and 6 year old are at home with their dad, bored and fractious. It's Saturday afternoon. The stuffy, slow afternoon looms ahead. I’m tired.

We’re too broke to afford swimming or a sweaty museum visit where they’ll want drinks and cakes. I’ve escaped from our flat, walked up the hill to the shops. Pulled down the hood of my olive-green, corduroy duffle coat. It’s missing a toggle and the fabric stands proud of my puffy frame. 

This old coat is a maternity coat, the only one I could afford from Top Shop’s 2005 maternity line. My mum might have bought me a nicer coat, but she and my dad were already buying me my maternity bras, babygrows, car seats (two). A cot.

So I bought the olive green coat, maternity clothing from the era just before the time that retailers realised that women still wanted to feel nice despite their pregnancy. 

And, 6 years on, I haven’t managed to replace the coat. Haven’t managed to earn enough. Get far enough. Be smart enough or — I don’t fucking know — “You fucking loser, in an admin job, you think you’re so fucking smart so fucking clever but look at you! No-one even sees you fucking loser” the voices in my head bang along with the metal of the basket bashes into the soft part of my knee.

I pick up cheese and tomatoes for pizza, some bacon for breakfast. A cheap bottle of wine that my then-husband and I hope will be enough for the night ahead, but never is. 

But I want coffee. Nothing fancy, just own-brand. And the girls haven’t had a comic for so long and the afternoon is wet and one of three neighbours might decide that, yes, Saturday afternoon is the time for a party so loud our double-glazed window-panes shake in their casings. 

My girls love the comic stand, each glossy comic, the paper smooth under their little fingers, the stickers, stories and toys promising new worlds. And a new comic each means a little peace, a little time clear for me, from chores and cooking. It means peace and, for once, their happy little faces will light up when I come home with something new and exciting. Not the same dulled look when I have to say, “not this week, not this time”. The same dull withdrawal my then-husband gives me when I say “not this week, not this time” to him. But it’s about £9 for two comics. £9. That’s around a fifth of my food budget but the kids are bored and —

“You fucking loser everyone else can afford treats for their kids. They’re not skanking round the shops with wet feet and a dirty coat. Fucking loser how fucking useful is that fucking MA? Doesn’t feed your kids, does it, you fucking loser” round and round my head, I beat myself up.

I work 4 days a week. My then-husband works 5 days a week. We’re two naïve — immature — arts graduates, trying to make it in London on entry-level salaries. But I am 29, he is 31 and we are parents to two children. “You’re ruining those children you lazy c*nt” runs through my brain.

Into my olive coat I shrink into my shame. I move smoothly, quietly, unobtrusively. No fast steps, but make them small. Don’t look up, make no eye contact. Reach for the coffee grounds and tuck them behind the heavy block of cheddar. I’m preparing my basket for the scanners. Lay the comics perfectly together, snug, a complicit pair.

At the self-scanner, I pinch the comics together, the cheese and coffee. I adopt the casual poise I learned to feel brave enough to walk London alone. 

Because no-one’s looking at me. I am a white middle class woman in south London. I’m not the obvious shoplifter, here. Security will be looking at the Big Issue seller, the loud families. The young Black men. Though I don’t realise it at the time, my whiteness allows me to steal these goodies.

I slip through the double doors and head home through the drizzle, my toes cold and damp in my old cotton plimsolls.

I don’t remember giving the girls their comics, but I know that they always loved the feel of the fresh paper in their hands.

In my coat I felt invisible. I was truly lost.

I was the saddest I’d ever been.

-

This sadness metastasized into panic attacks, rages and drinking. Clearly, I’m no longer shoplifting. Now I make my life through writing. It’s been 8 years of trial and error, learning and sharing. 

But my first lesson came from Don Draper, season one, Mad Men.

And, in 2 weeks, I’ll be starting my ‘Pop Culture Guide to Confidence’.

Because the path from this level of sorrow and failure to a more fulfilled life is possible. I’ll be sharing things I’ve learned from people and pop-culture, so that more people can access their power and build the right life that fits.

I’ll be sending a link to sign-up for my new newsletter soon. If you’d like to learn more about building confidence on a metaphorical dime, I’d love it if you’d join me.

-

I’m know the systemic problems with food banks, but if you’re inclined, here’s a link to the Trussell Trust.

Cover photo by Charles Etoroma on Unsplash