Retail Therapy

 Went to Guildford for some retail therapy last Saturday. It didn’t work.

 My younger son, he of the Justin Bieber hairstyle, needed some clothes. He got them .He was happy. Some of the bizarre girl outfits in the shops- even Vivienne Westwood would disapprove! The darkened perfumed cavern called Abercrombie and Fitch was a novel experience. It reminded me of a massage and beauty parlour I once entered  in Thailand. Sitting down to recover from the shock of the price of the item we’d  bought him I thought I was in some kind of plush bar, surrounded by bottles of interesting looking and much needed alcohol. In the gloom I eventually worked out they were body sprays and foul smelling at that.

 Trying on some sports trousers in M and S I caught sight of my large posterior – the size of Brazil, as Brigit Jones once said, how the hell did I get so fat? Eventually emerging, traumatised by the sight, I went to pay.” Going to the gym”? asked the pimply young lad at the counter. Though tempted to answer “No I’m going to a f...ing wedding” I reckoned he’d just been on a customer service training course. He couldn’t possibly fancy me, not after what I’d just seen. He blathered on “black is a good colour for the gym”. Nodding curtly I paid and left as soon as I could. Arriving home to a clothes catalogue called “Fat Face” in the post my husband commented – “perhaps it should be called Fat Ar.. for you”.

I hit him.