Party wear is only just starting to filter into the stores and it’s a bit like Goldilocks and the Three Bears; too big, too small, too shiny, not shiny enough, too high cut, dear lord too low cut etc etc.
K has a stand by outfit, but we're hoping it can be improved upon. Surely there has to be something somewhere?
I'm having marginally more success and find a party top for myself and the most gorgeous grey military style Matthew Williamson coat. Sadly my size is the only one missing from the rack, but hey maybe another branch has one in stock and they could find out and reserve it for me, like numerous signs in the store advertise.
Honestly, from the response I receive from the assistant at the cash desk, you’d think I’d just asked if I could eat her recently deceased grandmother. Some people are born surly, others have surliness thrust upon them...and some have their picture on Wikipedia illustrating the entry for 'surly'. Even her co-workers were rolling their eyes.
After a little bit of persuasion she does eventually toddle of and return with the message that one in my side has been put aside for me at the Trafford Centre. Job's a good 'un.
Mooching around departments and carrying hangers isn’t exactly the best medicine for my back and after about an hour or so, it starts giving warning twinges and a café stop seems politic. Who should we see on the escalator coming up to the first floor as we’re heading up to the next level, but R.
I’m blaming the level of pain I was dealing with at the time, for the fact that for a good few seconds I just stood and pointed, before I managed to summon the more appropriate response of calling his name or notifying K.
A lovely chance to catch up with R, but before too long we have to bid him farewell and recommence the hunt.
Unfortunately, the main quarry of something for K's party continues to elude us and before we know it, I have to bale on her in order to make it to my hair appointment.
A fellow client has mucked my hair colourist about a bit, so I end up with a bit of a wait between cut and colour. A beautician has just opened up shop in the converted basement, so I figure it's time to experience my first ever manicure (honestly I could be a girl really if I tried hard enough).
Very impressed at the ability to make even my worn and cracked taloons into something almost respectable, but I'm fairly sure that cuticle removement isn't supposed to involve a bit of a slip and a chunk of flesh gouged out of the side of your finger. She's very lovely and apologetic and I downplay it with "oh don't worry I hardly think it's going to kill me", but if I'm honest if I'd realised at the time quite how deep the cut was, I might have held back on the tip a bit...
So all in all not a widely successful day. I did however take one of the 'Bristol' trip pairs of shoes back for a refund. Can you guess which ones?
And yes you did hear right, I came home one pair of shoes to the lighter.
And they say the age of miracles is dead.
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