Here’s the truth. We don’t go to The Range for quality. We go for the thrill of the hunt. It’s the IKEA of random stuff, but without the meatballs and the existential dread. You can buy a dog bed, a flute, and a bag of dried chillies all in one trip. Where else can you do that? Nowhere. That’s where.
The queue is always a plot twist. There’s one till open. The person in front has a trolley full of picture frames and gardening gloves. You stand there, sweating, holding a single, lightbulb. You think, “I should just leave it.” But you don’t. You’ve invested the time. You’re in this now.
And the checkout experience is a gamble. The cashier may be a teenager who looks like they’d rather be at the dentist. Or a cheerful lady who comments on your paddleboard purchase. “Going on holiday?” she asks. You say yes, even though you have no water anywhere near you. The social pressure is real.
The parking lot saga
Let’s not forget the Purley Way parking lot. It’s a battlefield. Traffic cones that appear from nowhere. Carts that have a mind of their own. You’ll see someone trying to load a flatpack wardrobe into a Fiat 500. It’s not going to work. You know it. They know it. But they try anyway. The Range gives you hope.
The Range is about to open a store in Croydon - here’s what to expect
I once saw a man trying to tie a giant bag of compost to his roof rack. With string. From the shop. The Range is a place of dreams, but also of questionable decisions. That’s its charm.
