Topshop is terrible. I will say it. Whereas before I spent most of my time stocking up on tshirts and the occasional skirt, maybe even a pair of jeans come the sales, now if I can be bothered going in I buy pants, rings and maybe a pair of tights if they are particularly great and there isn't an equivalent in Primark for a fraction of the price. That is how I shop. This is mostly because a lot of their stuff is now hideous, over-the-top rot and if I wanted to look like a crackwhore I'd spread my legs and sniff my own brand of blow thank you. I don't need Miss Moss to tell me what to wear. However, their website informed me of this
Every self-respecting fashion addict knows pins should be dressed in lace tights and thigh-high socks for the new season.
Holy crap! says I. Thigh-high socks, yes please. I was confused then when there were no socks for sale. I didn't let that bother me though and gamely entered the fray with pennies in my pocket and fought my way through the scenesters and isthatamanorawomanican'ttellohgodhenoticedmestaringmaybeishouldjustaskohnoiseeabulgeinthosegirljeans.
They have no thigh-high socks. They have hats and scarves and lots of stuff that would imply they have new season stock in but not what I want. Not the one thing I convinced myself would be the perfect thing to cheer me up today. The bastards.
So I did what any self-respecting half-miserable exhausted girl who will soon realise she has not only put on a tshirt that belongs to her sister but that it is inside out would do. I bought a pair of impractical knickers with money I was saving to buy a dvd. And then when I tried to sort my top out on the train this huge fat guy gave me an odd look and I paused for a moment. Then an old couple sat beside me and I gave up, doomed to be the wrong way round for another twenty minutes.
That was my day apart from lots of mopping and hoovering and sighing and general contemplation over how I manage to wind myself up over silly little things. My new plan for the remainder of the year is to hide from everyone. I will drown myself in blankets if I must leave the house or if I feel obliged to pass the time in the company of the people I do not hate like some sort of vampire. It is the safest option.
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3 comments:
Hmm...blankets. When I was wee, me and my best friend ever, Adam, used to play a game called 'blanket races'. Basically, we got a duvet cover each, got inside and then proceeded to roll down the stairs in them. The winner was whoever got to the bottom first.
As my dear friend of many years lay unconsicous at the foot of the stairs with his collarbone snapped in two, I rose from my duvet, arms aloft and tasted the sweet, sweet air of victory. And Mr. Sheen on the polished white banisters.
Those were good times.
That's a whole different level of blanket issues right there.
Mm. I can't look at a duvet without feeling the need to throw myself down the stairs in it these days.
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