I predict my male readers will only get two sentences through this one

So, now that I have a shiny new job to go to, I have to turn my attention to various boring adult things. Like the fact that I only own two suits, one of which isn’t so much a ‘suit’ as ‘a jacket and a skirt made of vaguely the same fabric, the former of which has a ripped lining’. This, I suspect, will not cut it. So, woe is me, I have to go shopping.

Since I haven’t had leave since before the invention of the iPod, I have decided that said shopping should take place in a city other than this one. A nice little yuppie holiday to go along with my nice little yuppie job.

(Oh, my poor mother. She spent our childhood pioneering Community Farms, and protesting at Greenham, and force-feeding us macrobiotic lentils. I bet she never intended us to turn out like this. Actually, that’s not true. I think it was all a cunning plan on her behalf. Step One, indoctrinate children in Alternative Hippy Lifestyle Choices. Step Two, ensure that AHLCs in question are just uncomfortable enough* to send them screaming over to the Dark Side of Comfort and Affluence. Step Three, be taken care of in own morally superior old age. Well played, mother; well played indeed.)

Indulgent as such a holiday sounds, it’s something of a challenge for me. I’m not good at spending money on myself, and I resent the cost of good clothes. What tends to happen, therefore, is that I get caught between the beautiful but expensive option and the ill-fitting but (to me) reasonably priced option, sulk about how much of a chore this whole shopping thing is, get annoyed with myself for wasting so much time and end up buying something which is halfway between the two options. I then wear it twice, realise it’s completely unsuitable for its original purpose and start again. I’m not even going to tell you how many black skirts I own, all bought in a quest for a straight, classy skirt that finishes an inch or two above the knee, and all of which are either calf-length, too short, too large across the waist and/or too small across the hips, or, in one particular stroke of genius, not actually black but a sort of dark browney-purple that goes with absolutely nothing else in my wardrobe.

Eight skirts, since you’re so persistent. And I still don’t own one that fits the original bill.

I need a new strategy. I thought perhaps I should try going shopping whilst intoxicated, but that might just mean that I think I look foxy in everything, rather than alleviating concern about price tags. The same problem applies to shopping in a self-imposed panic; any strategy that stops me worrying about cost will also stop me being able to exercise judgment.

So I’ve come up with a plan. The only times in my life I have been able to shop with an eagle eye for a flattering cut and not be bothered about cost have been when I’m dressing for a crush. A devastating pair of jeans? Wicked little heels? And Crush will be seeing me in these clothes, you say? Hell yeah, here’s the credit card, pretty me up.

Now all I have to do is develop a crush on someone, preferably someone whom I see regularly and who has a predeliction for business suits. How hard could that be?

*I’m sure it’s possible to grow up on brown rice, lentils and pulses, and be comfortable. When your only parent works long hours and loathes cooking, however, it’s rather the opposite. When I was ten I was forced to develop a mysterious and non-specific food allergy until she buckled and reverted to Birds’ Eye fish fingers and baked beans, otherwise I would have starved to death.