Katie and the Great Dimmies Debacle

I could sing the praises of Footscray till the cows come home.  It’s one of dwindling few suburbs where you can get an awesome feed for five dollars, and if you’re still hungry after that you can mosey on over to the donut stand and experience a piping hot, oozy jam pastry that’s bordering on a religious experience.  Yes, I reckon this place is pretty rad, but not when it comes to the basics.  There is no supermarket here.  They closed the Coles the day I moved in, and took the Kmart with it.  Several times I’ve found myself traipsing despairingly around Footscray on a doomed hunt for vegemite, fuelled only by my wit and leaking donut.

So I knew I was in desperate territory yesterday when I locked myself out of the house an hour before work.  Tom and I had nipped out for coffee in our morning ensembles of trackies and ugg boots, only to find ourselves on one side of the door, and our work attire on the other. 

‘What the fuck are we going to dooooo!’  Was my constructive response to the situation.  ‘I can’t go to work in this!’ 

Possessing slightly more reason than me on this particular occasion, Tom suggested we drive to West Footscray and locate ourselves a clothing store.  With no time to lose, we bumbled back into the car and commenced the expedition. 

‘WHERE IS THE KMART?  THERE IS NO KMART!’  I observed as we drove in.  At the ‘plaza shopping centre’ there were two tyre and auto places, several indiscriminate shops that looked like they hadn’t been open since 1982, and a Dimmies.  My heart sank as my fate dawned on me.

Running around the isles of Dimmies like a demented trashbag, I was able to locate the following:        

One giant smock slightly resembling a shirt, correct colour.

One pair of pants in my size- apparently from the pre-war era, with a ridiculously high waist band and ample room for Monroe-esque thighs.

Two types of shoes to choose from!  Oh joy.  Wait, no.  Just one type, because the work shoes were all for left feet.  One pair of imitation Converse, to add a touch of cool to my Dimmies get-up.

Grim determination on my face, I bought the disgusting outfit, clamoured into the car, and began pulling off my clothes before realising I needed a bra.  I sighed, told Tom to turn around, and ran back into Dimmies, semi naked in tracksuit pants and ratty singlet top, screaming ‘I STILL NEED A BRA!’

The shop attendants, who by this stage had decided just to do what I said, lest some unidentifiable fate befall them, hurried me to the dismal underwear selection.  Grabbing the first bra I saw, I bolted back to the car, almost completely de-robed by the time I closed the door.  Tom didn’t say anything, as I set about yanking on the ill fitting attire.  He seemed to have adopted the same wary resignation as the shop attendants, and simply drove, eyes trained on the road.

We got to the Restaurant two minutes late.  I couldn’t run inside because the fake Converse bit around the heels.  So I half limped, half jogged into work, swearing under my breath all the while. 

‘Katie?’  Asked Tina, my manager, apparently unsure as to whether the dishevelled mess before her was indeed her employee.

And wasn’t I.  Standing there panting, almost swallowed by my wrinkled shirt, I wondered why on Earth I’d come to work at all.  Then I sucked in a deep breath, forced myself to look at my manager, and explained my ordeal.  By the time I got to the bit about the bra, Tina was in stiches, and congratulating me whole-heartedly on my resolve. 

She also suggested I get dressed for my morning coffee run from now on.  But I don’t think it should be my responsibility to account for Footscray’s short comings.  Footscray, I love you, but open a damn clothes store!