So, feeling a tad guilty (and quite peeved) about my Amazon addiction, I recently vowed to re-embrace the brick-and-mortar shopping experience. Cue my adventure at Currry’s for a new soundbar, because apparently, I’m now a real-life retail explorer again. I walked in, got escorted to the soundbar section by an actual human, and was promised a salesman shortly. But alas, stock was as scarce as humble politicians, yet I picked one out eventually as I didn’t want to return empty handed.

Dreaded Insurance Pitch

Then came the dreaded insurance pitch—the part where you’re guilt-tripped into buying breakdown cover. I sympathise with the poor soul on minimum wage trying to sell me something utterly useless, so I whip up a storm of excuses like a professional dodgeball player. After enduring the insurance sales pitch, I bolted home and embarked on a DIY soundbar installation marathon.

Miraculously, everything went smoothly—bracket level, connections intact. I was on cloud nine, thinking that for once, I had aced the “Jennifer’s ADHD Fit & Proper” test. But then reality hit like a poorly tuned soundbar—it sounded like a disgruntled duck. Jennifer’s arrival and her confirmation of its crappiness only fueled my inner meltdown. In a fit of self-righteous rage, I tore it off the wall, packed it up theatrically, and raced back to Currry’s like a man possessed.

The Return

Walking in, I declared, “Mate, this sounds crap! I need one that doesn’t sound like it’s made of tin cans!” And lo and behold, I upgraded to a fancier model with sub-barkers or whatever they’re called, for the low, low price of £120 more. Of course, this only invited more pitches for breakdown cover, which I deflected with some feeble mumbling about my supposed special house insurance for gadgets. It’s like a curse—I can’t help but empathise with the poor souls forced to push worthless insurance on people. I need to learn to get the whole miserable experience over with in a more brutal manner.

Wallet lighter, but ego somewhat salvaged, I drove home muttering about wasted hours on what should’ve been a delightful spring day. She’d better like this one. But as I walked in, I heard sound emanating from the TV. Had I gone mad? Nope, Jennifer had miraculously fixed the old one. My bottom lip started trembling at the thought of returning to Currry’s to exchange the soundbar I had exchanged for the soundbar I had initially bought to replace the broken soundbar that wasn’t broken anymore. How do you explain that without sounding like you’re in a sketch from “The Two Ronnies”?

The Compromise

“I know, let’s use the old one in my office and keep this one here,” I suggested desperately. But alas, Jennifer vetoed that plan faster than you can say “don’t be a cretin”. So, we settled on a compromise: Jennifer’s returning it tomorrow while I cower in the car, contemplating my existential crisis in the footwell.

I’m never going to Curry’s again!