Susie Rushton: We all have the right to change our minds

Urban Notebook

I know what I like, and I certainly don't need Gok's help, but when I'm shopping for clothes, I sometimes make a bad choice.

I won't realise, of course, until I'm back home, standing in front of the mirror looking at a woman wearing a too-shiny, puke-coloured, fat-enhancing dress. And then, if reassurance from my partner rings flat, I know what I've got to do. Take it back. Oh, how my heart sinks at the task ahead. Because exchanging an item of clothing (a refund is too abject) is a chore right down there with fingernailing crusty rice from the bottom of a saucepan.

I once worked as a stylist's assistant and, to give our clients plenty to choose from, we'd buy hundreds of pounds' worth of clothes from high street fashion stores. Anything they didn't want was walked right back into the shop the next day, an arm-length till receipt flapping in the breeze. If you were ever behind me in the queue, I apologise.

The real challenge, though, is to exchange in a designer shop. Righting a dud purchase is both more urgent – because of the cost – and humiliating. You creep in, an only slightly home-soiled carrier bag in one hand, and the assistants flinch: here she comes, they think, a customer who'll have me working out a fiddly credit card transaction, the manager hanging over my shoulder as I examine the goods for specks of food, and I won't even earn any commission. A customer might as well walk right in with dog dirt on both shoes.

But this week I discovered that a pleasant effect of the recession is the transformation of sales staff. Shuffling into the shoe department of a famous department store, rejected goods and crumpled receipt in my hand, a friendly assistant laughed off my sheepishness. "We all change our minds," she said reassuringly, and she was right: by the end of the afternoon I'd abandoned all prejudices against the profession. A ritzy boutique across the road offered a similar experience; it was "no problem" that I didn't buy, even after dozens of boxes were brought out. I was a break from the horrible boredom of an empty store.

Now that the pound is uselessly weak, British sales staff aren't just learning how to be nice, they're learning new languages; eager to pull in an extra £3bn from overseas visitors, this week it was revealed that West End retailers are tutoring employees in the cultural expectations of the Kuwaiti, Chinese, American, Russian and Indian shoppers, all of whom are in town bargain-hunting. They're being taught that Arabs don't like being asked whom a gift is for; that Americans need the prices converted into dollars; that Russians shop in groups and therefore need plenty of space. (Liberty is making the aisles wider just for them).

And what do I need? To be able to change my mind – just like every other woman on the planet.