Vicky Ewan: Halycon days of the shopping catalogue

I feel as though we have lost an essential contributor to consumer satisfaction in recent years, almost without noticing its stealthy departure. Little by little, the powerful upswing in online shopping and the increasingly sophisticated usage of it, though doubtlessly valuable in myriad ways, have eroded the presence of a physical component that we once all took for granted, to such a degree that, for many of us, it has almost disappeared. 

I am talking about the once universally available shopping catalogue and the breadth of experience that it provided to so many people over so many decades. I still recall with a frisson of pleasure the enjoyment afforded me by flicking through the versions of these publications generated for popular high street outlets. I say flicking through, although that really fails to describe the hours that I could cheerfully expend poring over the glossy pages, shining beguilingly with their tempting wares; they were guaranteed to alleviate the monotony of wet weather days and long Sunday afternoons. 

It was a genuine thrill when a new edition of a favourite catalogue was released; special trips would be made to the store in question to procure a copy, and much would be made of the array of new stock on offer, each item presented in its best light and open to viewing caprice. Everything looked desirable, no matter its category; I’m sure there were very few classifications that were too obscure for me to admire. Stereos? Absolutely. Kettles? Yes, please. Power tools? Why not? Should Christmas or my birthday be approaching, or should those festivities have lately been celebrated, leaving me with money or vouchers burning a hole in my pocket, my idle browsing would become much more focused. Careful note would be taken of the item number, and an optimistic journey would be in the offing – which led arguably to the most stimulating aspect of the whole process: discovering whether the object of my desire was in stock. 

More often than not, I would be in luck, but even on the occasions when my request was unsuccessful, the venture was scarcely devoid of meaning; disappointment was simply part of the experience, and expectations were suitably honed. Somehow, sitting in the comfort of one’s home and having the ability to check stock levels at the mere touch of a button has removed some of the romance from this method of shopping; gone is the soaring hope and the plunging despair that formed an intrinsic part of catalogue shopping. Two main catalogue competitors had become household names in my youth for housewares, toys, gardening equipment and so on; pitted against each other, the companies’ books were very similar in makeup – though we savvy shoppers understood how to work this to our advantage, scouring the price points of each for the better deal. 

One generally had a slight edge over the other, for variety and price, and, ultimately, that led to the survival of the fittest, with that company’s name still in existence to this day. It wasn’t just the high street shopping outlets that relied on glossy brochures to tempt consumers; home shopping companies cultivated a hugely successful enterprise through these books, producing bi-yearly catalogues for mail-order shopping – much of which was dedicated to fashion – that could be delivered straight to your door. My mum subscribed to a couple of these, and their wrist-achingly thick publications were a box of delights for a younger me. Mired in the chilly depths of a dour winter, I could feast my senses on the sunny brightness of the coming season’s fashion, and dream about a summery wardrobe. My mum was a modest but unfailingly loyal customer of these establishments for many years, and I was her willing accomplice. 

Perhaps I pestered her unremittingly, but I recall being allowed to select items of clothing for myself on occasion – what a treat. I was utterly seduced by the outfits modelled by the glamorous beauties that graced the pages of these publications; I would heed the placing of the orders by phone with glee and then await the delivery of the goods requested in a fever of anticipation. Days, when I returned from school to discover a familiar grey plastic package awaiting my attention, were very good days indeed, and opening the wrapping to find inside the very item I had ordered seemed like the realisation of some kind of enchantment.