I’m not a shopper — certainly not a recreational shopper. Unless I have an actual need for something, I tend to avoid retail spaces. And when I do need to buy, I try to avoid malls and chain stores.
Essentially, I don’t like being sold to. I don’t like busy window displays and overloaded “specials'” tables. I dislike the loud music that seems to have become normal, and above all, I dislike being followed around a shop by a sales assistant trying to “help” me.
I’m a buyer, not a shopper.
I do like markets; especially the kind giving artisan producers a chance to sell the fruits of their labour. I like the sense of engagement, a chance to talk to people who make things and whose passion for what’s on sale is genuine and infinitely greater than that of a shop worker whose minimum-wage income needs to be boosted with sales commissions.
And markets are often held in interesting spaces. I am just as likely to enjoy the architecture and ambience as any of the products for sale.
Unless it’s a real bargain.
But then there are the things I would feel uncomfortable about buying in any regular “shopping” place — like an animal.
I have no reason to believe this pig breeder doesn’t look after her animals, but personally, I’d want to know more about potential purchasers than just that they could stump up sixty bucks.