Anyway, not that we'd had all that much by way of a summer, still she did insist on the annual pilgrimage to the emporium of all dread and tears, so we could look upon their mighty displays of furnishings and despair.
Of course, it is regarded as cheating to look upon anything there presented and saying 'that'll do,' then turn for the checkout as if the whole adventure is over. These things are supposed to take time and consideration. It is not enough – apparently - to find something quite comfortable, with a colour scheme that does not look like the cat has been sick all over it and at a price that doesn't make the eyes bleed.
Everything in the shop must be examined in the minutest detail – preferably several times. Each item must be given the greatest philosophical scrutiny and the oracles of the appropriate magazine or TV programme must be quoted, ideally in great depth.
Minute distinctions of colour and texture must be debated with all due earnestness and seriousness and any such heretic as oneself - who with a flurry of measuring tape - condemns the whole project on mere grounds of a lack of mere physical space, or some other such piffling intrusion of reality, is roundly condemned and then dismissed to the outer reaches of the car park to reflect on a life of sin against the wisdom and beneficence of the domestic gods, while she goes off to have a cup of tea and to think* about it.
*I.e. to make a vow to herself to keep coming back to these places weekend after weekend until the man surrenders.