CONFESSIONS OF A SHOPAHOLIC When I was a little girl, there were real prices and mum’s prices. Real prices got you shiny sparkling things that lasted three weeks and mum’s prices got you brown things that lasted for ever. ‘Did you say they were 50% off?’ But when I looked into shop windows, I saw another world, a dreamy world full of perfect things, a world where grown-up girls got what they wanted. They were beautiful, like fairies or princesses. They didn’t even need any money, they had magic cards, I wanted one. Little did I know I would end up with twelve. Rebecca Bloomwood, occupation, journalist; jacket, visa; dress, AmEx; belt, MasterCard, it’s vintage and I got 1% cash back; bag, Gucci, it’s worth every penny. Moving to New York, I met guys. Let’s kind of put this in perspective. You know the feeling when you see someone cute and he smiles, and you heart goes like warm butter sliding down hot toast; that’s what it’s like when I see a store, only better. You see, a man will never love you or treat you as well as a store. If a man doesn’t fit, you can’t exchange it him seven weeks later for a gorgeous cashmere sweater. A store always smells good, a store can awaken a lust for things you never even knew you needed, and when your fingers grasp one of these shiny new bags, oh yes, oh yes. Oh no, £900. THE GREEN SCARF “Rebecca, you just got a credit card bill of £900, you do not need a scarf” “Then again, who needs a scarf? Roll old jeans around your neck that will keep you warm. That’s what your mother would do.” “You’re right, she would.” “The point about this scarf is that it would become part of the definition of your psyche. You see what I mean?” “Yes, I do, keep talking.” “It would make your eyes look bigger.” “It would make my haircut look more expensive.” “You could wear it with everything.” “It would be an investment.” “You’d be the girl in the green scarf.”
