Today, instead of beginning work on Chapter Whatever-it-is in the BRB, I went for lunch with my mum, who was visiting Birmingham for the day. We battled through the Birmingham shoppers, along with the 27,000 disappointed teenagers. Birmingham was awful.
Despite my predilection to walk into a shop, look around, see too many people in my way and promptly turn on my heel and exit the store empty-handed (and grumpy-faced), I managed to buy quite a lot of new clothes.
Normal women moan into their mocha-latte-cappuchino-frappe-chai-thingies “why oh why have I bought more clothes? This is terrible!”. Not me. Buying new clothes is a veritable achievement for me. Honest!
I HATE clothes shopping with a passion, to the extent that I buy things on the internet and often have to return them, but I don’t mind the non-refundable postage and packaging costs, as that is the tax I pay for the priviledge of not having to forcibly push my way past busty women in the car boot sale they call TK Maxx.
But I do like having nice clothes. Every few months I realise that everything I used to love has become frayed, bobbly or faded and the mounting doom tells me that I might need to go and mingle with the consumers. Yeuck.
The only snag is, now I need some new boots to go with my new skirt. Siiiigggghh…
Oh yeah, TMA result came back at 1030pm Friday night. At first I was very very pleased, but then I realised… things can only go downhill from here.