The Shopaholic's Cure

If you are an "average" sized (i.e. bigger than Aussie size 10) woman with a compulsive addiction to shopping, come to Tokyo. You will be cured once and for all.

As a size 12 back home, I try to avoid shopping in Tokyo as much as possible. More to the point, Matthew tries to avoid me shopping, having copped enough of the "I am so obese!" and the "Why have I put on 10 pounds when Japanese foods are supposed to be so healthy?" tirades. However, with my friend Roz's wedding in Australia looming, I resigned myself to the inevitable - a shopping expedition (read, ordeal) in the legendary department stores of Shinjuku and Shibuya, home to those lovely fillies staggering about in their Prada pin-heels with boyfriend's credit card in tow.

Let me say firstly that I find a lot of people in Tokyo very helpful. Sales assistants, however, are a staggeringly aloof breed. The moment I walk into a store, after the obligatory "Irrashaimassai!" there is a chasm of silence, the sales assistants busily assuming that 1) I don't speak Japanese (partly true) or 2) I cannot fit into anything in their store (also partly true, I may fit into one of their hats). Thus, I get the stare down, but little help. Those that do venture to my side of the shop, try out a tentative, "Sugoku kawaii desu ne!" (that's so cute, huh?) and I respond, before the silence descends once more.

There are actually a few stores in Tokyo catering to the euphemistically "tall" lady (Australian size 10-16 (U.S 8-14), anything larger and you are in serious trouble), among them Isetan in Shinjuku and Next in Jiyugoaka, two excellent finds. However, these stores stock mainly dressy casual or business clothes, not exactly suitable for a wedding, so I was forced to branch out into the unchartered territory of the "short" stores.

Japanese ladies love their brand names bordering on obsession and this is the second frustration. The cost. It goes without saying that Tokyo is an expensive city, but when you are expected to fork out A$175 for what amounts to little more than a T-shirt, you find yourself wandering up and down the aisles in a white noise daze, reminiscing about the days when you could buy a little black dress from Cue for that amount.

After I had picked over four department stores in Shinjuku, it occurred to me very suddenly (and belatedly) that I hated just about everything in the stores. It was all either "cutting edge" (aka bizarre experiments you would only see on a catwalk) or the kakky pastels favoured by chic Asian ladies but not favoured by moi. The aisles seem to be laden with pale orange frilly nightmares of fabric so fragile it would disintegrate on a size 12 frame. When I actually found something I liked I was so overjoyed I bought it with only a glance at the price tag. As it happened, this store was also home to Tokyo's friendliest Sales Assistant, who kept her attentive smile, even when I chucked a gaijin, and accidentally went into the fitting room-u with my shoes on (they are really funny about these things).

If you like your fashion pin-sized or have a penchant for pale pastel frillby frollby numbers, then by all means go nuts in Tokyo. Just remember to bring your credit card. With a very large limit.