I do not tend to wake up in the morning thinking: “Cor, I desperately need a carrot sharpener” or “I really need a stress ball in the shape of cactus”.
But you know what? I just discovered that a carrot sharpener and a cactus stress ball make my life better. It’s not that carrot shavings taste particularly better, or that all my stress is gone thanks to the prickly stress ball; it’s just that they’re fun, and when I open the cutlery drawer or look at my desk, I get a little flutter of a smile.
Which is possibly why, against all odds, I love that shop called Flying Tiger.
I say “against all odds” because I am not what you’d call a shopping enthusiast; I hate the saga of traffic and parking to get to the shops and therefore get most of my must-needs online; and I am no fan of franchises because they snuff out all the little independent shops and make all cities everywhere in the world look the same.
But. I make an exception for Flying Tiger, which is a shop, a franchise, it’s in Paola and Sliema in spots where parking is a nightmare, and has around 500 stores worldwide, so you’ll bump into it in every European city. Although, in actual fact, I had never really noticed it before it opened shop here, and in fact I thought ‘yawn’ and rolled my eyes every time Lovin Malta posted a gushing advertorial.
So what happened then? It helps, of course, that it’s the only shop that my daughter actually doesn’t mind going into and is happy to come with me on a whole afternoon of errands if I promise to wrap up the trip there. And it also helps that the boys at home are always asking us to “get those jar thingies / wrapping paper / reading glasses” from “that place you go to”.
But why on earth would I close an eye to a shop where I can go and buy, erm, a pair of sunglasses in the shape of a lama, or a watermelon shower cap? I’ve asked myself that question over and over.
The cheekiness of the items sells it to me. Call it soulful junk, or junk for the soul – but I’m happy that a small thing as the carrot sharpener helps me to break all the monotonous rules of shopping
Is it because it’s cheap? Because essentially it’s a pound shop, and in fact, the name tiger comes from the word tier – the equivalent of a Danish one euro – which is pronounced like tiger.
Obviously, it’s great that it’s cheap, but I am not usually enamoured of pound shops for the simple reason that despite the good bargains, everything is usually stacked up in daunting piles all over the walls, aisles, staircases and ceilings, which makes me terribly confused, claustrophobic and anxious (it’s not just pound shops, Zara clothes shops make me feel the same).
So then I thought maybe it’s the layout that lures me in? It’s that very Danish labyrinthine design that is very structured and stylish and themed, very Ikea-ish. My mind can deal with that kind of order, and I actually go “Hurrah, there’s still another corner I need to explore”. Go figure.
It could also be because there is no €1.99 or the 99-cent gimmick and no tedious upselling “We have this, this and that on offer, would you like to purchase, yap, yap, yap”. At the cashpoint they only ask you if you are sure you really, really want a plastic bag in manner of “let’s save the planet please”.
Or maybe because it’s a shop that makes me want to take up hobbies, like proper hobbies with a capital ‘H’ such as gardening, painting or baking. The tools are all nicely laid out, ready to nudge me to start ‘a new favourite leisure pursuit’. In fact, their website links you to a YouTube channel full of how-to videos: how to do paper plate sea shells, wooden spoon dolls, party garland, instead of an online shop.
The truth is that I’ve been a closet Tiger groupie for a long time. I used to mock-groan every time I stepped foot inside, until I read a piece in The Spectator where the columnist Laura Freeman admitted her addiction: “When I go into Tiger I wonder what’s got into me. Normally of a puritanical bent (I have storage boxes for my storage boxes), I regress to pick’n’mix pocket-money childhood,” she wrote. Oh! I said out loud, me too, me too (without the hashtag).
Obviously, my job is to be a harsh and cruel critic: it could well be that tomorrow I’ll wake up and think – heavens, I’ve fallen into a capitalist trap! What on earth was I thinking? But so far, I admit that the humour, the cheekiness of the items sells it to me. Call it soulful junk, or junk for the soul – but I’m happy that a small thing as the carrot sharpener helps me to break all the monotonous rules of shopping.
krischetcuti@gmail.com
Twitter: @krischetcuti
This is a Times of Malta print opinion piece