Recently a friend admired my new dark blue leggings before adding slyly, “I thought you weren’t shopping anymore”.
My heart began to beat a little too quickly as I strained to make my voice sound normal. “One pair of leggings is not shopping”, I squealed in a curiously high-pitched tone. For goodness sake, picking up a pair of leggings is akin to buying a three pack pair of socks in M&S – it doesn’t count! After all, they weren’t studded. They didn’t even boast a minor zip embellishment. A humble pair of indigo leggings, commendable for their simplicity but certainly not destined to raise your blood pressure to unacceptable levels. Bereft of the exquisite joy in finding something truly luscious and swinging a crisp paper bag to and fro in Piccadilly, they constituted a necessity purchase only.
My most recent strut down Regent Street morphed into an angry stomp. To-die-for studded boots seemed to taunt me in the window of Zara, Aquascutum beckoned with a lavish array of structured coats while snow-whites whispered winter delights in Mango…. Tears pricked my eyes.
All of a sudden, the Saturday I popped into town, ostensibly for office heels, and returned with no less than four pairs, none of which fitted the bill - delightful burgundy cowboy boots, a couple of Russell & Bromley flats and Kurt Geiger extreme heel fashionistas - seems a lifetime ago. I even had to trek off to Argos to buy a shoe trunk as my new shoes spilled and tumbled out of boxes all over the floor of my room. And no one wants to step out of bed and directly onto a Carvela stiletto first thing on a cold November morning!
Not to forget the occasion I drew blood for a vintage hat. Deep navy, a small, wide bow at the back and netting at the front, it promised 1940s sophistication and glamour from its perch on the top shelf. There was no doubt in my mind that this hat was for me. I leaned forward on tiptoes and stretched my arm high. But it was no use. I looked for assistance, but the stall owner was busily pulling out the full-length mirror for one of her customers. I swung wildly at the top shelf, jumping a little this time.
Suddenly, a stunned silence gripped our side of the fair as shoppers in neighbouring stalls dropped lace gloves in fright. The hat-stand wasn’t of the simple, wooden variety. This was an altogether more elaborate affair; all metal spokes and pins. I shielded my eyes from the dazzling spray of pins. The stall-owner, crouched fearfully behind the large mirror she had been holding for an eager mother-of-the bride, timidly raised her head. Looking down in shame, I noticed that my right foot, unprotected, was spouting a rich dark glob of blood. “Will you be taking that?” asked the stall-owner, a slight edge to her crisp sales voice. Stammering, I pulled twenty-pound notes from my purse and fled.
I’m occasionally wistful for five star hotels in Milan, Paris and Rotterdam and exquisite meals every night of the week. A Gucci scarf here, a Chanel lipstick there, I joyously scooped up little treats as I dashed through the airport on my way to or from meetings with some of the company’s key clients in Europe. Basking in the sunshine on the patios of some of Europe’s finest hotels, sipping a coffee richer than any England has to offer, it is fair to say that my old job as a management consultant certainly delivered some perks. For a girl who breathes in the leather of a new Chloé or Dior bag much as a wine connoisseur inhales a seasoned Merlot, it made sense to coincide a business trip to Milan with the opening of the summer sales. Crimson-cheeked, I sought to explain to a proud Milanese taxi driver that I was on a work trip, as he respectfully stowed the over-sized bags.
It is unsurprising then that what pains me most about no longer working in the City is not being able to shop.
There is cutting down and there is going cold turkey. Returning home after a trip to the heart of London’s finest retail district with a single, solitary pair of leggings is about as close to cold turkey as I dare to go. I still cherish the navy hat and my Kurt Geiger flats but more than that I miss the heart-racing, short-of-breath thrill that accompanies finding such a treasure.
