plastic hangers

PLASTIC HANGERS
The husband looked down into the packing case laden with piles of neatly folded clothes, then at me, then back down again. "Suppose you're right," he conceded "plastic hangers will do just as well." He turned away, kind of bewildered at his realization and I let off three silent cheers. With good reason, too-Wooden Hanger Mania has afflicted him ever since a careless visit to Habitat and their hanger section, stocked, apparently, solely by merchandise with a corrupting bent, at silly prices.
"So," I said.'Shall we go?" The husband nodded, surreptitiously fingering a garment, adopting a look of deep thought or chronic constipation–one cannot be sure.
Armed with a tight blouse and a pair of pursed lips, I led my beloved shopwards, into the heart of the land of Fashion Retail. His resolve to score seemed to fade somewhat at the sight of interminable consumerism and happy humanity, but it was late, far too late to turn back now... We advanced to a position of strategic value, behind a concrete bollard and then took the plunge. The sea of the Waddling Classes parted for our access to prey.
First, Next. Inside, we found some ambient blondes, shrouded in palpable indifference. "Cwot hangews?" frowned the nearest one, getting to grips with the concept as the rest looked on in suspicious bemusement. "Sowwy..."
Beales staff, remarkably responsive, returned a crisp "No.", pleading recent refurbishment of their store cupboard. "But you can always try Dingles.".
Half a dozen unsuccessful sorties later, we plodded on, palms sweating, powered by the force of suppressed expletives unknown to singles.
The husband suggested a break and steered me towards Debenhams' top floor galleried eaterie- "the thinking man's choice". We had tea and scone, in the singular, for economy reasons, setting nearby staff on mild tramp-alert and prompting pitying looks from fellow customers: Japanese tourists and terminally British solid citizens in plastic chairs lamenting mental atrophy. It was time to leave.
Dingles' air conditioning system provided further soothing of nerves as we traversed its unfeasibly dull and deserted sartorial departments looking for shaped plastic hangers and a pair of functioning ears. These came attached to a bubbly brunette in kitten heels, who nodded sympathetically and mounted a transdepartmental, and ultimately fruitless, search.
So, we walked, glum and helpless, amid a blazé public (how dare they?) and their children, burgers etc. until an outsize skateboard blocked our path. Its human emitted a grunt in our general direction and we identified the setting as Burton's doorway. The husband, in desperation, pushed doorpost-boy aside and entered the shop. He was greeted by a gaggle of good-humored girls with crisp clothes and even crisper consonants and a robust, tanned man. They answered his plea with warm smiles and the man (manager?) sprang to his feet, revealing his too-tight trousers. He made a lucky sign, turned (trousers definitely too tight) and produced several stuffed bin bags full of black, shaped, clean coat hangers.
Seen out by Burton's staff's collective megawatt grin, we contentedly lumbered into the next doorway bearing our hefty treasure. It was six-ish. The streetlights came on and he lit a cigarette. There was silence. He narrowed his eyes and took a puff. "Piece of cake" he exhaled.