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50 reviews on file, averaging 3.5 stars. The panel stands by all of them.
A rich, unspoken social contract governing who orders when, how loud to speak into the clown's head, and whether to acknowledge the second window staff member by name. Fascinating. Occasionally hostile. 3 stars for the McFlurry lever being permanently broken.
Worn to weddings, funerals, job interviews and Antarctic expeditions with equal confidence. Doubles as a fly swatter, a wheel chock, and a projectile of last resort. Best-in-class engineering for $8 a pair.
Went in for a phone charger. Left with a candle called "Linen Fog," two cushions, and a mild sense of financial vertigo. Structurally identical to my bank balance by the time I reach the register.
Running continuously, without pause, since approximately 2011. Nothing has gone. Everything remains. A remarkable piece of long-form retail theatre that we can only respect at this point.
A relic of 2020 that no longer means anything, enforced by absolutely no one, yet I still follow them religiously three years later out of what I can only describe as institutional trauma. 5 stars for the lasting psychological grip.
Went in for wrapping paper. Left with a inflatable flamingo, a box of Christmas lights in July, and a phone case for a phone model that stopped being manufactured in 2016. Perfect.
Staff greet you with the enthusiasm of a footy grand final the moment you walk past the door sensor. Slightly startling at 9:03am. Weirdly motivating by 9:04am.
A single laminating machine capable of turning any piece of paper into a permanent, unkillable artefact. The school timetable has now outlived the school year by several months.
A maze of haberdashery spanning what feels like several postcodes, navigated entirely by instinct, with checkout located a full geological era from the entrance.
Went in for a $12 shelf. Left three hours later having eaten meatballs, bought a plant, lost a family member near the wardrobes, and forgotten the shelf entirely.
Paid $65 for the privilege of buying a kilogram of cheese I did not need. Convinced myself this was a strategic long-term saving. It was not. Renewed anyway.
Every single item has been 20% off, ends Sunday, for a period exceeding the current government's entire term. A masterclass in the concept of permanent urgency.
Walked in, was greeted by name, had my usual order started before I'd finished saying hello. A level of personalised service no app has ever come close to replicating.
Purchased a t-shirt reading Good Vibes Only while in an objectively terrible mood. The irony was not lost on the checkout operator, who said nothing, mercifully.
Walked in for milk. Walked out with a camping hammock, a set of ratchet straps, and a leaf blower, none of which I own a use case for. The true final boss of impulse retail.
A contact sport disguised as a shopping event, played at 6am by people who were, twelve hours earlier, calmly eating Christmas ham. Reviewed with a mild shoulder injury.
A logistics achievement of the highest order, allowing the purchase of an entire evening's requirements without ever leaving the driver's seat. Efficient. Slightly concerning. Extremely popular.
Contents unknown, value unclear, thrill entirely present. Received a single glove, a VHS tape, and a genuinely excellent jumper. Two out of three is a personal best.
Designed, apparently, by someone who has never driven a car nor watched anyone else drive one. Entered at 2:00pm. Located the exit at 2:19pm. Filed as a genuine ordeal.
A cheerful automated announcement congratulating you on saving money, played at a volume audible from the car park, every single time your loyalty card is scanned.
Vented deliberately toward the entrance at 4:30pm to intercept shoppers who arrived with a list containing no bread. Worked immediately. Left with two loaves and a packet of finger buns.
Items launched down the belt at a velocity that would concern a physicist, leaving the customer to catch groceries with both arms and repack at a bench sixty metres away, in shame.
Selected at random from a bay of forty identical trolleys and revealed, at aisle two, to have a strong and unshakeable preference for the left. Committed now. Will not be swapping.
A system requiring a physical dollar coin in a country that abandoned physical money in 2020. Resolved via a plastic token on a keyring that has been lost four times this year.
A silent, high-stakes competition conducted around a single chilled cabinet by six adults pretending not to notice each other. The yellow stickers went in under nine seconds. Fair play to all involved.
Bought the wrong size fitting, returned, bought the correct size fitting, discovered a second incorrect fitting further up the pipe. Currently on trip four. The sausage has been the only constant.
Received a precise aisle number, a bay number, a shelf height, and an unsolicited but entirely correct opinion about the better product two bays over. World-class. Genuinely.
Presented a competitor's price on a phone screen at the counter with the nervous energy of a man attempting a heist. It was honoured immediately and without drama. Saved $4.20. Felt enormous.
Found a genuinely excellent wool coat for $12, a novelty mug, and a hardback about a war nobody in the store could identify. Staffed entirely by volunteers who have seen far stranger donations.
A brief negotiation regarding 15 cents that both parties conduct with unnecessary intensity, resolved by carrying a bottle of milk and a loaf of bread across a car park with bare hands, on principle.
Parked on Blue 3. Or Level B3. Or possibly Kangaroo. Returned to find all three exist and none of them contain the vehicle. Located it forty minutes later on Green 2.
Intercepted en route to the register, presented with something four dollars cheaper and demonstrably better, and sent on his way. Has never once been wrong. Runs the whole operation on instinct.
Lotto, greeting cards, school supplies, phone chargers, a small selection of confectionery, and one rack of newspapers at the back that has clearly not been the priority since 2011.
Steered firmly away from the snapper, toward the whiting, and given cooking instructions that were not requested and turned out to be essential. Cost less. Tasted better. Trust fully established.
Pressed a single grape into the reviewer's hand with the confidence of a man who has never been wrong about a grape. He was not wrong about the grape. Two kilos purchased on the spot.
Advertised for a fortnight, opened at midnight, and unavailable for the first forty minutes to everyone who set an alarm. By the time it loaded, the item was gone and the sale was over.
A size 12 in one store, a 14 in the next, and a 10 in the third, all within the same shopping centre, on the same body, in the same hour. The system is not a system.
Given a plastic tag reading 4 for three garments, which is either a security measure, a mathematical statement, or a test. Returned all three. Kept the tag by accident. Feel terrible about it.
Advertised as the fast option. Situated at the rear of the store past every department, staffed intermittently, and requiring a barcode from an email that has been archived. Faster to have shopped.
A four-minute presentation regarding accidental damage cover on a $60 kettle, delivered by someone who clearly does not believe in it either. Declined three times. Offered a fourth.
Requested at every transaction, present at none, resulting in a mumbled phone number the customer is no longer certain is theirs. Points balance: unknown. Points ever redeemed: zero.
An unpaid employee of an independent hardware store who sleeps on a stack of drop sheets, accepts pats from selected customers, and is unambiguously the primary reason for repeat business.
$59 for a cable of dubious provenance, purchased under duress at gate 14 with four percent battery remaining. It stopped working before the plane landed. It was always going to.
A trading name retained purely for nostalgia, on a store where the cheapest item is $4.50. The name has not changed. The prices have. Nobody has raised it. Nobody will.
Told twice that we are just looking, thanks. Accompanied at a distance of two metres for the entire visit. Left without purchasing, largely to make a point neither party will acknowledge.
Signposted clearly, ignored completely, and discovered at the moment of payment, prompting a 400-metre round trip to an ATM charging $3.50 to withdraw $20 for a $6 punnet of strawberries.
Offering a small paper cup of something on a toothpick with genuine warmth, converting an ordinary Thursday shop into an event. Took one. Circled back. Took another. Was permitted.
Handwritten, undated, and affixed to the inside of the glass at an unspecified point in the past. Waited eleven minutes. The five minutes had, by all indications, already elapsed some time ago.
Ninety minutes spent evaluating swags, a portable fridge, and a four-burner setup for a trip that does not exist and will not be booked. Bought a torch. Felt like an adventurer for one afternoon.
Four minutes spent standing before a heated glass display evaluating a pie, a roll, and something described only as a wrap, before selecting the exact item chosen on every previous visit.