SARAH MILNE says she has always been mistaken for a shoplifter. It’s got to do with her gaunt frame not filling out her clothes properly, leaving ample space for the concealment of goods.

I LIKE to think that I have glided through the marbled halls of Canberra, glittering occasion upon glittering occasion, as gussied up as the next woman. 

But holidays are a different matter. I tend to dress down, or more correctly, “down and out”. My outfit of choice is a shapeless tracksuit top and baggy jeans, worn so low, they would put a young rapper to shame.  It was while hanging around the men’s toilets in Ulladulla, early one morning last April (waiting on my husband, I should add) that it was all brought home to me yet again. 

A gentleman, gaunt in frame, asked me if I was alright and if I “needed anything?” I assured him that I was okay for now, but thanks for asking.

Shortly afterwards, I made my way to the Aldi supermarket, walked around the aisles, and not finding what I wanted, made to leave. 

I was stopped by a friendly security guard who used that greeting, unique to Australia, that I so love: “Can I look in your bag, darl?” She had kind eyes and I was eager to oblige. I replied with a “sure thing” and opened my shabby rucksack for her to peruse. 

Soggy tissues, half used napkins, sachets of tomato ketchup, several pairs of glasses, paper flyers, empty plastic bags and half-eaten bags of chips that I keep to feed seagulls all tumbled out. I think she regretted her decision immediately as she snapped on her latex gloves and gave the bag the most cursory of rummages. 

She then fixed me with a sympathetic smile and said I was “all done”. I think she would have liked to press a few coins into my hand and a card for St. Mungo’s hostel.

I have always been mistaken for a shoplifter, both in my home country and across several continents. It’s something to do with my own gaunt frame not filling out my clothes properly, leaving ample space for the concealment of goods. The constant foostering [an Irish word for fiddling around or fussing with something] in my bags for glasses, shopping lists, pieces of paper with measurements, money, cards and I’m immediately aware of the security guard moving into position alongside me. 

It only serves to make me act more suspiciously. I start examining the goods on the shelf with a forensic eye, while at the same time, grinning maniacally at the security guard to somehow reassure them that I am harmless. 

And to add to the pathos, I often think that my eagerness to have my bag searched comes across as the actions of a lonely woman in need of a little social interaction with, well, anybody. 

Because of two episodes of “mistaken identity” in one day, I vowed that something had to change. I would make a better effort with my attire…  just not today. 

I sallied forth that afternoon, hair uncombed, no lipstick, looking like something dragged through a hedge backwards. And, as true as I’m standing here, who should I see in the distance but the poshest of matrons from my neighbourhood, beautifully dressed and coiffed, a vision in nautical navy and white. I couldn’t believe it! 

If I was to be seen?  Absolute societal ruin. I frantically tried ducking down a side alley but couldn’t find one. I tried shielding myself behind my husband, but he kept moving off. Then the door of Miller’s beckoned, offering me sanctuary. Phew! What a lucky escape! 

And as for that goddess in navy and white? Prince’s Highway, Ulladulla, 2.30pm, Saturday, April 3. You know who you are madam, and you looked mighty fine! 

Sarah Milne came to Canberra from overseas with her husband and daughter, and lived here for three years. 

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