**Warning - this post has contents relating to sluts, over-use of brackets, terrorism, size 8 clothes, Next sales, a book and bitch bags. Not for the faint hearted. You might need Tena Ladies or do as I do, not bother and let it all go in WH Smiths**
Belle and I shopped in the lavish surroundings of the Trafford Centre Mall today.
I couldn't bloody breathe, it was heaving.
If anyone wanted to blow up a shopping mall with shoppers at full capacity - today would have been the day.
Not that I think that's funny and nor do I condone such terrorism but whenever I leave the house these days, I'm forced to think such things. Why do you think I love online shopping so much?
Well, anyway, Belle had a mission and I followed her to various shops to keep a watchful eye on her Christmas spends. My only distraction was to go via Selfridges because their sales are generous. Like practically insulting to even charge you for such knock down items at the ridiculous knock down rates. They should at least give stuff away when it comes to 90% off stuff.
So, anyway (again)
Belle and I were reasonably dressed. I didn't put any designer gear on (and I mean Primark when I say that) nor did we dress in our slobbies. But you cant help but feel the sneer of smug little Selfridge's assistants judging you as you walk past their empty booths. You know for a fact they are talking about Belle in her pushchair or the fact that I wasn't fully loaded up with my make up. The looks of disdain when you approach a make-up counter makes my skin crawl and my cheeks redden as some perfectly coiffured 10 year old shop assistant treats you like you are 65.
I wear Mac as a rule.
But every time I go to the Mac counter I don't seem to blend in with young socialites with their Ugg boots, Juicy trackies and make up as thick as the rendering on our dining room wall. I seem to stand out from such a young crowd and you can see the Mac girls hard pushed to come and serve me and when they do, they pick out colours that would only make me look like Ive just had a friggin heart attack.
So today I thought "Sod it" and turned on my heels to hunt down some bargains at other designer departments, again with snobby little runt assistants giving you the evil eye. I mean, strip back the layers of their shop status and they are just as normal as you or I. But give them a name badge with Selfridges across the top and then watch their cumbersome life status run up a few notches of smugness. Why even at £6.00 an hour, they are suddenly shot into super bitchdom shop assistant who couldn't afford to buy anything on their booths even with a discount anyway. Then again, neither can I but you know.....standards and all that.
I was about to vacate the store after bypassing Jimmy Choo's, Prada and Luis Vuitton booths with slobber dripping off my chin(s) when I noticed a boxed gift set reduced. The alarm bells start ringing in your head when a red sales sticker denotes 30% off perfume. Of course this has to pass the sniff test before you contemplate purchasing such oddities and a quick spritz of Sarah Jessica Parker's Covet was atomised into the air. The top notes reminded me of lime cordial (a winner in Belles eyes, not that I sprayed it into her eyes... but you know what I mean) and then the mid tones gave me a dreamy feeling followed by the bottom note which reminded me of chock. Its not ultimately a sweet perfume, once rested, but I gave into the £19.50 sales tag and bought from the nearest kiosk, this being Tricia Mcevoy.
I asked the girl if it was OK to buy from her kiosk as many of the kiosks you may approach would be met by some over made-up assistant who would sniff her nose in the air and then turn her vengeful glare to signify "Don't come near me, you under made up in-bred carrot cruncher from the farm. This kiosk is for Clinique only, not some place to buy your cheap perfume headed by Coty". The girl, Annabelle who deserves sparks, bangs and whistles for her charming delight in that I chose her kiosk for the sale, was just lovely. Whilst at the till my eye wandered over to the little POS trick treaters (you know, the stuff they bung next to the register in order that whilst the assistant takes a purposeful 10 minutes ringing up your goods, they hope you will make the extra purchase out of sheer boredom). I sniffed at Tricia Mcevoy No 6 which was bloody gorgeous but almost fainted when I enquired as to how much they were. A girl at my age ought to know better that if it has no price on it (other than rendering it free, in my book) means that its not going to be cheap. So I started talking to the girl who was taking far too long to ring in one boxed gift set for my liking (I know their twicks) and I asked about Tricia Mcevoy products. Which, as you know, led to almost a full makeover from the said Annabelle. As she slapped on over priced make up on my chops, I noticed her co-worker on the stall was a young lad who wore this weird looking bitch bag across his front and was overly feminine in his gracious little moves to talk to customers who approached him, half magnetised by the bitch bag Im quite sure. It was clear he was delightfully gay. **sigh, Im desperate for a gay boy "friend" so we can talk about how best to sashay across a shop floor without evil eyes and dirt talk behind your back**. Anyway, Annabelle did a bloody cracking job of making me look fabulous so I enquired as to how much an investment package would be from the range of products that I liked. Naturally a second mortgage on the house would do the trick but I actually do love the concept behind Mcevoys level purchase theory. Basically you buy this fab little filofax style make up bag (erm, £42) and you buy plastic pages in which you insert your make up into (erm £10 each). I mean.... BINGO! You can have your make up and your appointments/diary/notes/london underground map all in one little zipped carry case. And because I am a level 1 make up user (ie very light use, no foundation/blushers etc) Id get to have the smaller filo fax where as level three full coverage make up customers get almost a weekender bag to hoard their trowels, chisels and cement mixers as well as the make up itself. Ingenius, Tricia. Im really (and Im not kidding now) going to look into that including the cheeky little No6 I almost bought at the register.
I left Selfridges feeling less worthy after the Tricia Mcevoy experience. Although to be fair, had I of teetered out in a pair of Jimmies, I would have felt a tad better. But still.
Belle wanted to go and spend her WH Smiths voucher and who can resist WH Smiths? Its packed to the rafters with books, stationary and random odds and sods - I could spend hours in there. Belle treated herself to a new DS game and some books plus a magazine whilst I bought this funny little book.
Im a tad pissed off that I found that link for you because I paid £14.99 for it today and at Amazon its £7.49 (cant you see why I still love online shopping - bastards!)
So - this funny little book.........I mean its written funny as in "little sarcastic outbursts that make you leak pee pee in your panties in the shop" kind of funny. You know exactly what I mean, I know I dont suffer alone. I would love to write a book like this (but obv not on this subject because that would be like copying/plagiarism/plain silly/almost a good idea stealing someone elses work). But I just dont have the time and besides - what if nobody laughed? Id deny the women who like to leak pee pee in their panties whilst in the middle of WH Smiths, wouldn't I? Everyone wants to write a book before they die, but I consider my blog to be my book - well, thats my get out clause anyway. And even if I slightly considered writing one it would be far from the SlitLit that I have been accustomed to recently (slitlit as in feeling like you need to slit your wrists cos the book (literature) is so sad). And besides (as she so convincingly is trying to worm her way out of a book deal that is bound to hit my inbox (not being rude) tomorrow morning) my grammar and punctuation is shite. No Editor could ever put up with it even if I bribed her with a share of the profits and a Tricia Mcevoy make over at Selfrdiges.
Once Belle had made a slight dent in her christmas spends, we head back to the car. Via Next of course. Everyone knows that the Next sales is the mecca of all things size 8 (US size 4) and size three shoes. No amount of sifting to the back of the rail is going to surmount to a bargain unless you slice your body in half (length ways) to even consider getting your arm in one of the trouser legs, let alone your leg itself. I love how Next dot the label in red - like a warning sign to everyone you know that you shopped cheap. I often think twice about wearing a Next sale item of clothing when I go to a place that calls for undressing (which in my case is the Gym and in various public places where I feel like streaking) just so that I dont have fingers of disdain pointing at me just because I bought something in the Next sale. This undignified red mark of shame ought to be banished - Hell, I might even create a Facebook group about it.
Anyway, I bought a bag - at full price.
No fingers of shame pointing at me.
And its Red.
Ive never owned a Red bag.
I used to think that Red bags were sluttish, I dont know why. I mean, I dont judge others that have Red bags but to me they just seemed like a cheap cop out and less obvious than Black.
It called to me. (as with the other 35 bags on display. The whole shop did infact, even the size 8 blouses that wouldn't even go round my ankle let alone my body).
Even Belle gave it a thumbs up when I showed her the Red, the Black and the Dirty Brown for approval.
It was only £18.
Hardly Radley or Luis Vuitton.
So I bought it.
So now I can now tick off, on my life list, that I own a slut Red bag.