Shopping

There are three things I want to do tomorrow:

1)Meet the duke.
2)Go to Stabcon.
3)Carry on working on the project.

There is one thing I must do tomorrow:
Shop>>:-(

We go to Scotland next weekend, and I suspect the highlands aren't ready for the sight of a buck-naked Boot. My mother has sent me birthday money to buy clothes. My love has given me birthday money to buy clothes. I get the message: I am shabby beyond love's tact or blindness. Something must be done.

Oh, it's not that I don't want to look pretty. But I do seem to be the only woman I know who really, seriously, does not get off on retail therapy. No amount of Sex and the City repeats will turn me into that much loved marketing creation, the compulsive female consumer. I do try to get enthusiastic, but I hate changing rooms and changing room queues, I hate crowded saturdays and cheaply cut clothes, I hate bags that break and bustle and hassle. Above all, I hate having to do this when I have a dozen other things to do, because there's no more time!

It's not as though we haven't tried shopping after work, but I am too tired then, and I just get drained and exasperated. Much better to be having a larf avec Le Duke, or going to Stabcon, or getting on with this project which is turning into a major thing.

I mean, do I really need new clothes for Scotland? Surely I'll be fine with wellies and a kagool?

A story for Chambers*

And anybody else who likes this kind of thing.

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*Copyright Debbie Gallagher yaddayaddayadda.