There are days when I wake up and open my bag and collapse sobbing over its contents.
Yesterday I caught the end of Clueless and it made me cry. I love that movie – Alicia Silverstone in awful knee high socks, Poor Brittany Murphy, the guy who marries Phoebe, the revolving wardrobe. That’s what made me cry. Not Brittany – the revolving colour co-ordinated wardrobe.
I have NOTHING left to wear. My Reiss shorts jumpsuit, the one I love passionately even though it’s almost impossible to pee when wearing it, just got eaten. That was my last connection to fashion. Now it’s severed. All I have left are some hotpant shorts I bought when under the influence which I know I’m too old for but like to wear just because giving them up would feel like surrender. I have had to throw away three topshop vests and two pairs of trousers as well as my havanaias which finally bit the dust. The lovely Ketut in Bali sewed up my strapless sundress that kept falling to my navel so I still have a nice line in strapless sundresses, just no boobs to hold them up anymore. My bikinis are so saggy that they make my butt look like it’s scraping the floor.
This morning I surveyed the remnants of my bag with a sigh.
‘I’m going to go shopping,’ I tell John. I open the door on forty degree heat and head forth but with no joy in my step. Because although this is paradise, Topshop hasn’t penetrated it. And neither has diet cherry coke.
I stumbled down the street and into the first shop I saw.
The bikinis hung in rows – polyester animal print shininess blinding me. I gave up after thirty desolate seconds. I tried for flip flops next but it seems in SE Asia the current trend is for two kinds of shoe only – the wedge flip flop and the fake croc. Seeing how I’d rather go barefoot for all eternity than wear either I muttered under my breath and backed away from the rainbow plastic array.
On the verge of giving up I headed to the duty free store down the road. They had rows and rows of diamante jeans. Just what I need, I thought, before heading to the alcohol section, past the blueberry and nut Pringles (the bad taste stretches across clothing and into groceries).
At least, at least there is this, I thought, clutching a £6 bottle of Gordon’s to my chest.