The Bourne(mouth) Consumerism

It had been a long third week. I had taught a Roald Dahl story to some German exchange students and put 64 rambunctious children to bed (some amid squeals of, "Can I make a seating chart for our English class so I can sit next to Jack?"). I had graded papers, coached rowing, taught surly fifteen-year-olds about the psychology of advertising, learned about Child Protection laws, and gone running on two blissful occasions.

It was time, come Saturday, to break out of what is commonly known as "the Bryanston Bubble." To do this in a pinch, one can simply walk the half-hour to the little Georgian village of Blandford and mulch around (taking note, Julia and I hope, of an excellent secondhand bookshop sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with banks on the high street). In our case, however, a truly great escape meant shopping and a movie in Bournemouth.


Allow me to explain: The Bryanston Bubble, it seems, serves as a horizon-shrinker. If one stays too long without reminders of the outside world, one starts to regard daily life as a tedious grind rather than an abundant blessing. One needs a place like Bournemouth (the footsore shoppers, the smell of the sea, the guy handling a boa constrictor in the square) in order to recall that working and living at our school is not normal.

So we shopped: Marks & Spencer (basics), Zara (trendy staples), H&M (just trends), and a shop Julia required we visit called "Mango" (expensive trends). We plundered the shelves, took no prisoners, scooped up the sale prices and skedaddled. The hunt was good and the gods were pleased. This skirt at Zara even caught my fancy, along with a striped boatneck top at H&M. My reasoning: just because all the kids are wearing it shouldn't make a classic shirt off-limits.

By the time we acknowledged our need for dinner, the movie was due to start in an hour. We inhaled our Wagamama entrees and waddled up the road to the theatre to claim our seats for (what erudite film, you ask?) Toy Story 3. In 3-D.


That's when I realized that British cinema has made advancements about which I've hitherto only dreamt.

There was a Ben & Jerry's in the lobby. Colorful. Euphoric. Gleaming with an earnest kaleidoscope of flavors.

United States movie houses, listen up: if you wish for cash to rain from heaven like glitter eyeshadow at a Taylor Swift concert, you shall not get it with $6.00 popcorn. Phish Food, my friends. Coffee Coffee Buzz Buzz Buzz. Vanilla Toffee Crunch. Cherry Garcia. All normally priced, but located just before the door to the movie. I'd buy it. I certainly did on Saturday.

By the time we got back to school, it was, as the English say, half-nine (meaning 9:30). The countdown to our next big project had begun. More later.