Wasted Hmv !link! – Direct Link

The Ghost in the Aisles

Think of the geometry of it. The Saturday afternoon geometry. The orange-and-yellow signage pulling you in like a lighthouse. The metal detectors at the door that beeped aggressively even if you only had a KitKat in your pocket. Inside, it was a cathedral of plastic. Row after row of CD jewel cases, their cellophane shrink-wrap catching the fluorescent light. You went in for one thing—the new single—and emerged two hours later, £40 poorer, holding a live DVD of a band you only sort of liked, a Simpsons mug, and a T-shirt that was two sizes too small. wasted hmv

That was the waste. The waste of time. The sublime, loitering, pointless waste of time. The Ghost in the Aisles Think of the geometry of it

We don’t say we “went to HMV” anymore. We say we “walked past where HMV used to be.” The metal detectors at the door that beeped