Going Straight
I was the eternal fan of the flare and boot cut, but even I can be turned by the strongest tides of fashion. Actually, a mere splash would redirect my opinion. I have for the second time in five years bought straight leg jeans. Is the age of the flare officially over?
Last weekend, I purchased a narrow fitting, dark, navy Diesel jeans. Slim fitting just makes me feel slimmer. On this basis, would skinny make me feel skinny? Probably not, seeing as they are likely to come no higher than my knees and narrow calves.
12 Pubs of Christmas
This Friday I will endure a new experience. For the first time in my relatively young life, I will undertake what is called a “Twelve Pubs of Christmas”. Boyfriend has done Twelve Pubs for years; in theory it sounds fun. I’ve decided to have a go for myself.
My friends intend visiting twelve pubs in six hours. It doesn’t take Einstein to figure this is going to be messy. Generally, one should consume one unit of alcohol per hour. This festive pub crawl intends for the attendants to consume one unit every half hour. To make matters worse we have been instructed to wear “Christmas Jumpers”. Naturally, some goers will not be outdone. I’ve been informed one of my friends is wearing lights; does she intend bringing a battery?
I have two days to throw a pile of Christmas tack together as an ensemble. I’ll have to get the thinking cap on. Suggestions are most welcome.
Too Fat to Eat Like That
For my nephew’s christening last weekend, I packed a pair of brown slacks I bought about four years ago. I overestimated my swine-flu-weight loss. The pants were skin tight; we are talking spray painted. Even Mum asked if I had anything else to wear. Imagine! I was a little self-conscious at first, but eventually didn’t give a shit.
I returned to work on Monday and swore I would take action to lose weight. “No more junk food,” I declared. I am proud to say little sugar and carbohydrate touched my lips this week, until today that is when the canteen hosted a Thanksgiving lunch. I initially stood my ground, opting for salad. When I saw the desserts on offer, I caved for some mixture of mango, biscuit and cream; apparently, titled a Syllabub.
I carried my heaving stomach to my desk to find a large tin of Cadbury’s Roses. Since we are at year end, working hard, my boss treated us. Despite my earlier gluttony, I stuffed my face with Roses. I am sad to admit these Roses were not of the floral variety. I pretty much climbed into the tin of chocolate like it were a bath and I was some unwashed bastard. I stuffed my face.
Sometimes, I disgust myself.
Happy Fiscal New Year
To an accountant, fiscal year end is a New Year’s Eve of sorts. Fiscal New Year, like New Year’s Eve, is about starting anew; new spreadsheets, clean accounts and elimination of aged items. Coming to the end of the fiscal year, much hard work is required. It is necessary to plug away like a trooper to “zero” your balances. Accounts must be in order.
“What if you don’t get your work done?” I hear you ask. If you do not adhere to your deadline, you are in trouble. If your accounts are messy, the auditors will scrutinise your work with magnifying glasses. They will sit at your desk and seek explanations. Apparently, this is a lot of work. If unsatisfied, they take out a big red stamp and deem you “non-compliant”.
This is supposedly a very bad thing. Are auditors like the Boogie Man of the corporate world? No offence to any auditors out there.
Queued to Get Chooed
I did as planned for Saturday morning. I queued outside H&M to avail of the limited edition Jimmy Choo products on offer. I arrived at 08.00 to find an orderly queue of around two hundred – most of whom were women – snaked around the corner of South King Street. Anticipation filled the air; it were as if the crowd might suddenly break into a sprint. The line contained just a few men accompanied by girlfriends. The best pickings of Jimmy Choo’s men’s range were as good as mine, I thought. My brother, Catherine and I waited patiently in the drizzling rain, making chit chat with some of the others in the queue.
At 09.00 the doors of the store swung open. The queue slithered at a quick pace until it was consumed by the entrance. In mere seconds, the ground floor of H&M descended into chaos. Countless women bounded for the centre of the shop, rummaging and throwing garments aside. Many grabbed anything they could, paying no heed to size or colour. I have since learned that a member of staff received a kick in the back by an aggressive customer. I am grateful to have given the lady-shoppers as wide a berth I did. I left Catherine to her sorority of fashion-enthusiasts. I made my way to the refuge of the men’s section. As the Bro and I descended on the escalator, I briefed him on the rules of engagement.
At the foot of the stairs was the Jimmy Choo range. It easily stood out from H&M’s regular collection. The clothes were adorned with lush, royal blue tags. The shiny, blue stacks of shoe boxes were a sight to behold. On my wish list was a leather jacket and suit. I rushed to the suits to secure my size. I quickly learned there were limited sizes on offer. I tried on a jacket. It was a little baggy. I opted for a thirty six waist trousers instead of a thirty four. Unfortunately, the men’s changing room had become an overflow to the women’s. There was no possibility I could try my suit on. My Bro suggested I strip in a quiet corner of the store, if I were desperate. I did consider it for a moment. The Bro and I separated to find the leather jackets.
“Find the leather jackets in size large!” I instructed him firmly. “Grab one in black and brown, if they have both colours!”
Minutes later, after no success, I scanned the increasing number of bodies to locate him. His eyes met mine.
“Any luck with the jacket?”
“Is that them?” He pointed to some shabby looking, fake leather jackets.
Frustrated, I glanced around the men’s section. Suddenly, it was obvious that this little island of fancy clothes and shoe boxes was the entirety of the Jimmy Choo men’s range. Only one third of the men’s range was on sale. There were no jeans, scarves or jackets. I located a member of staff.
“Hi, can you tell me where the leather jackets are?”
A young – and quite attractive – guy with a British accent shrugged. “Sorry, mate. This is the extent of it. They sent no leather jackets.”
“Oh!” I responded. Young, Sexy Shop Assistant turned to accommodate a pushy customer.
I stood there a little dumbstruck. What was I to do with the remaining few hundred euro I budgeted to spend? Catherine appeared from nowhere out of the bustling group of men. She carried a few items. I recognised a grey dress from coverage of the celebrity launch party earlier that week.
“How did you get on?” she asked in expectation.
“There are no leather jackets, Catherine! I am disappointed. What do you have?”
“I got these,” she replied as she held out her prizes. Two dresses draped from hangers. “I like this grey dress, but it’s not my size. It’s expensive. This other dress is pretty much all I could get. I am not mad on it either.”
We concluded she would not purchase either dress. She was not completely happy. She hung both Jimmy Choo dresses on a rail. Both garments were pilfered within seconds.
“What do you think of my suit, Catherine?”
She looked about my person. “Where is it?”
My brother howled with laughter.
“I’m wearing it now,” I said dismissively. “You are obviously astounded by its fabulousness.”
We all laughed.
“Is it a little big for you?” This question was put gently.
I turned to the mirror. I made an assessment of its size. A nearby woman advised the suit was a “fine” fit. My doubts were quashed. On the way to the pay point I stumbled over one or two shoe boxes that carelessly littered the floor. Maybe shoes would cater to the void my leather jacket would have so perfectly filled. I opened a shoe box to find a brown pair of suede boots. A second box contained the same.
“I hate suede,” I said to Catherine as I opened yet another box. “Behold! More suede boots.”
I reached for my fifth box. I could sense my brother’s impatience. There was no horrid suede boots. This box contained a pair of breathtakingly beautiful, black, leather boots. I gasped. I placed a hand to my chest.
Young, Sexy Shop Assistant reappeared in front of me. “Try them on,” he said (in probably less a provocative manner than I recall).
A good looking man need never instruct me twice. I sat on a display shelf and wedged my wide foot into the boot. They fit perfectly. I strutted up and down the shop, wearing one boot.
“I’m taking them,” I announced aloud. “And I am taking this Jimmy Choo wallet too.”
I proceeded to the pay point. Young, Sexy Shop Assistant had just opened a till (especially for me). He beckoned me forward. We made conversation as he meticulously folded the suit.
“You’re very lucky to find these boots,” he said. “These were the most popular item of the range.”
I lapped up the attention as I handed over my cash, momentarily considering suggestively throwing it at him.
Leaving the store, I felt good. I had just flirted outrageously with a sexy guy and bought some Jimmy Choo threads. I can’t exactly recall how I vacated the store; it may have been on a large, white, fluffy cloud.
Back at home, Boyfriend failed to conceive the idea of owning such amazing footwear. Nor did his basic mind grasp my suggestion I was now out of his league.
“I own Jimmy Choo boots,” I advised him. “The stakes are much higher now.”
He did not respond.
Boyfriend will not cease pestering me to remove the boots from the middle of the floor in the living room. They are a focal point; to be admired by all. Someday, I might have to wear them outdoors, but for the moment I desire to savour the perfection that is my black Jimmy Choo boots.
Remembering Banzai
Sitting in on Friday night, scouring the airwaves for something day-cent to watch, I stumbled across the home of repeats, the Dave channel. A long forgotten show, Banzai was on. Maybe it was the whiskey and coke laughing, but this show was quite good.
Banzai was a comedy, gambling game show; a spoof of existing Japanese shows. Banzai first aired on E4 and was eventually repeated on Channel 4. The content is off the wall, occasionally shocking humour. Arguably, the most well known character was Mr. Shake Hands Man.
Art of Stinginess
I went looking for advice on how to improve my blog-networking-skills and the creator of Art of Stinginess replied and suggested we post links to one another’s blogs on our site. I’ve just clicked him up and I am totally impressed with what I see. First off, his blog is slick and polished. The content could not be more relevant in this current r*ces!&*na%! climate. A spend thrift like me could definitely do with picking up some money saving tips. Thrifty suggestions include saving cash cash through magazine subscriptions and buying cheap Iphones. Give it a look! You might save yourself some doh.
Pick and Choos
I shall be queuing for the below outside H&M on Saturday morning with Catherine. Warm coffees will be essential. This suit retails at €200. I need it for my nephew’s christening in two week’s time. I also have (yet another) wedding to attend in January for which the suit is needed.
I have a few days to convince Boyfriend to get me an early Christmas present of the leather jacket also on offer as part of the collection. So far, he’s having none of it, but as I said, I still have a few days. I can be convincing when necessary; there are ways and means.

