A waitress approaches elderly American couple and asks them what they would like to drink. The American woman asks what beers they have. The waitress describes the various real ales available (including one brewed on the premises). A long pause follows. Eventually, the American woman replies “I’ll have a glass of water”. After bringing the drink, the waitress asks the couple what they would like to eat. The American woman asks what fish dishes they have (even though the menu and the daily specials blackboard lists these in detail. The waitress goes through the various options. This takes some time because the Turk’s Head has an excellent cook and the meals use a diverse range of fish and ways of cooking them. Another long pause follows. The American woman then orders: “I’ll have fish and chips”.
This American woman, needless to say, is not typical of other Americans my wife and I met during our brief holiday in Penzance this month. As a group, these (mainly elderly) Americans were well-travelled and adventurous. The woman in the Turk’s Head is more a representative of the phenomenon of choice-exhaustion. This is when, presented with a bewildering range of unfamiliar and complex options, we resort to the simple and familiar. Choice-exhaustion occurs when we go to very large supermarkets, and see 20 different brands of mayonnaise, or 30 types of vinegar. We are daily presented through the mass media with an endless range of food, sofas, cars, holidays, bank accounts, clothes, and products which reverse the signs of ageing, and make us slimmer and more attractive. To help us make appropriate choices, there is another and increasing range of websites and publications which compare and rate financial products, consumer goods, motor cars and so on.
Rather than revel in this wonderland of choice, many people experience a sense of inadequacy and threat. How much easier if someone could make the choices for you. This, in fact, is the strategy used by some wealthy people - they employ ‘lifestyle advisors’ and ‘personal shoppers’ to make choices on their behalf. These will usually choose whatever is fashionable at the moment, and, more especially, whatever can be recognised as expensive and fashionable. By these means, the wealthy become a kind of walking assemblage of brands, ever sensitive to how their personal appearance and possessions compare with those of other wealthy people. Spouses and partners can also come to be regarded as a kind of brand, to be traded in when they age or cease to be fashionable.
In the absence of paid choicemakers, the rest of us struggle along as best we can, relying on our own personalities, being loyal to familiar people and places, living the way we have always done, occasionally venturing to try something new.
This American woman, needless to say, is not typical of other Americans my wife and I met during our brief holiday in Penzance this month. As a group, these (mainly elderly) Americans were well-travelled and adventurous. The woman in the Turk’s Head is more a representative of the phenomenon of choice-exhaustion. This is when, presented with a bewildering range of unfamiliar and complex options, we resort to the simple and familiar. Choice-exhaustion occurs when we go to very large supermarkets, and see 20 different brands of mayonnaise, or 30 types of vinegar. We are daily presented through the mass media with an endless range of food, sofas, cars, holidays, bank accounts, clothes, and products which reverse the signs of ageing, and make us slimmer and more attractive. To help us make appropriate choices, there is another and increasing range of websites and publications which compare and rate financial products, consumer goods, motor cars and so on.
Rather than revel in this wonderland of choice, many people experience a sense of inadequacy and threat. How much easier if someone could make the choices for you. This, in fact, is the strategy used by some wealthy people - they employ ‘lifestyle advisors’ and ‘personal shoppers’ to make choices on their behalf. These will usually choose whatever is fashionable at the moment, and, more especially, whatever can be recognised as expensive and fashionable. By these means, the wealthy become a kind of walking assemblage of brands, ever sensitive to how their personal appearance and possessions compare with those of other wealthy people. Spouses and partners can also come to be regarded as a kind of brand, to be traded in when they age or cease to be fashionable.
In the absence of paid choicemakers, the rest of us struggle along as best we can, relying on our own personalities, being loyal to familiar people and places, living the way we have always done, occasionally venturing to try something new.
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