When I’m in the mood then I quite like going clothes shopping. It can be fun. But there are rules about these things, girls, now aren’t there? First of all you’ve got to set aside the time. Then you decide what it is you want. Then you decide which stores you’re going into. Then you ignore all that, take a leisurely wander round any shops that catch your eye, and pop in the odd coffee and lunch. Then you try on anything that takes your fancy, and end up with nothing in your bag except the chocolate wrapper from the bar you bought to cheer yourself up because you couldn’t find anything.
Only sometimes you do get something nice, or a bargain, and then you can add cake to your coffee. Or you can have the cake anyway, without the bargain…
Nope. Not when you’re going clothes shopping with Daughter 2, the surgeon one. In fact, that’s why she’s a surgeon – because she hates clothes shopping, and if you’re a surgeon you can just wear scrubs. Sorted.
However, D2 decided she needed a new outfit, because she’s giving a paper next week and has to look smart. Hurray, I thought, at last! Clothes-shopping with daughter – could be fun!
So we abandoned Hub with the 2 grandchildren eating gingerbread men in the cafe, and descended to the floor below. We’re looking for ‘tailored’. I spot the sign and we head over there. I start riffling through the rails, like you do.
D2 meanwhile has gone through them already like that white tornado thing. ‘Notthat-notthat-notthat – that’s OK – in my size? – right I’ll take these and try them on now.’ All in 30 seconds. Wot? already? I haven’t started!
THAT’S NOT HOW IT’S DONE, is what I would have puffed – if I could have kept up with her as she raced for the fitting room. I sat down demurely outside to wait, expecting to be asked for my invaluable opinion. Nothing. So I did that thing where you don’t know which changing room your person is in – you know the one? – and called her name. ‘Nearly finished!’ she calls cheerfully.
She zooms out with her armful of clothes. Notthat-notthat-notthat-notthat – but I’ll take those 2 and I need a size 10 in the trousers, Mum.
I meekly trail off to the rail and get the size 10. There is still a gleam of hope – she hasn’t got new jeans yet and there’s a whole sea of them!
‘Hm,’ says D2. ‘I’ll just get a pair exactly the same as the ones I’m wearing and that’s it – how about you go and see how Dad is getting on with the children?’ – and she shoots off.
:**: I know my place … :yes: