I remember being five years old and being dragged around Choice. I was comforted only by the knowledge that one day I would be in my twenties and able to do what I want.
Cut to years later and my then girlfriend says "I want to go to Choice". "Do I get a choice?" is my retort. She smiled at me, in that way women do - and then two hours later the receipt is reeling off and my debit card is £60 worse off; all because I was tricked into buying her a pile of rubbish from Choice.
Miraculously, this place hasn't changed in twenty years. Same colours, same staff, possibly even the same clothes. Choice is one of those curious cases where a business survives even when most people wish it wouldn't. This place is more bland than a closed down Littlewoods; no man has ever liked this place. However, women continuously flock there in search of bargain socks and other things that nobody in their right mind would ever want. It confuses me. read more