On a small domestic level here, not talking about all the seriously large stuff going on . . .
On my trip back to the UK, I was overwhelmed in a chemist — so awful this particular one that I can't recall its name — pink and black with far too much lighting. The assistant kept asking me if I wanted to smell Justin Bieber, or at least what he had claimed to be his invented smell. I only went in for a bottle of shampoo; did I look like someone who would want to smell a fragrance fabricated by a waining pop star's publicity team: Really!
Anyway, yes I was overwhelmed by many things: the choice of shampoo, the ton of tacky jewellery, the have six of these and you can have a seventh, quater price off, and a copy of Prying Into Celebrity Bathrooms; but even more so by the sheer quantities of false eyelashes on sale.
The few (I assume) people who actually waste time gluing hairs onto themselves cannot be vast? Especially in the cute Trumpton-esque town of Wimborne. How many choices do you need?
Big, huge, long, short, Yeti, subtle, small - perhaps you don't possess eyelashes, in which case fair enough, but there were enough possibilities to cover anything: seduction, going shopping for groceries but looking lovely in case you happened to meet someone exciting behind the courgette display; Goth, vampire, Barbi, spaced out, clumped, with jewels or without, messed up ones - really, ones that looked like you had gone to bed for three days after drinking eighty Tequila slammers and hadn't cleaned off your makeup. Mad.
I bought a small bottle of something for normal hair (whatever that actually is) paid and escaped without learning what J.B smells like.