Thanks to a generous client, I had a windfall this week – a gloriously thick envelope of vouchers from the yellow-bag haven that is Selfridges.
My attention to his portfolio hadn’t gone unnoticed or perhaps it was the “wily women ways” that I’d shamelessly employed to develop it. There was a moment, though, when I feared I might have blown it as I pushed him off after he attempted a garlicky after-lunch embrace in the lift.
My euphoria at the thought of the pending shopping spree was short-lived, however, as I made the mistake of notifying my boss – as per company policy – about the “gift”. Sucking her teeth like Hannibal for chianti, she hissed, “fabulous, let’s shop”, and whipped the vouchers out of my hand.
In a flash we were cosied up in the back of a cab racing down Oxford Street.
The cab ride was spent trying to shove the fava bean-munching image from my mind as she yelled into her mobile like an Apprentice veteran.
At Selfridges I let myself down by asking about a “celebrity” perfume. The shop assistant was quick to tell me: “We don’t carry those types of sprays.”
And my boss let me know exactly what she thought by whispering “chav” as she marched off to the bag drop-off in the basement. It’s just a shame they don’t cater for the older, female brand of bag which I could have done with off-loading.
Fittingly, she ordered the trout in the restaurant, which provided me with a sniggering opportunity. Juvenile, I know, but she started it.
Agreeing to meet her in an hour I escaped up to the lingerie department and managed to grab a few frillies before she summoned me back.
When I arrived, she was wearing a pair of Crocs that looked like two giant Cornish pasties. Naturally I told her they looked “perfect”, and she bought three pairs while I patted my handbag lovingly.
Inside I had kept back some vouchers for a later date, when I was sure not to have any baggage.