I walked into Primrose Hill at lunchtime, past all the useless shops - like the one that does sewing workshops for kiddies at weekends, the one that appears to just design twatty party invitations, the jewellers and dress shop that never seem to have anyone inside, and the ironmongers - a useful one at last, hooray!
I found myself in another expensive dress shop that even now I feel a bit plebby in, but I steeled myself, thinking that I looked sufficiently like a Primrose Hill boho twit in my black velvet coat and fake Fryes. I thought I'd go and try on something ridiculously expensive for a laugh, but I wasn't laughing so much when the first thing I saw was a cardigan priced at £479. Now, you know I like clothes, but I could have a holiday for the price of that, frankly rather nasty, item of knitwear, and I think the look on my face told the shop assistant that modom wouldn't be buying today. Do you think people in shops like this are trained to suss out people who are 'just looking', and in the snootier ones, boot them out by the scruff of their necks? I still feel a bit of a fraud in places like Selfridges and Harrods, which might just as well have big neon signs saying YOU CAN'T AFFORD IT, HAHAHAHA hanging everywhere. And I've only just been able to step into those funny little boutiques run by the wives of hedge fund managers as a way of earing a bit of unneccessary pin-money (mainly because they can no longer wrinkle their noses at me and say 'Not in your size, madam').
It's funny how the shop assistants are always really nice in Aldi. I told one that once, and she said 'Are you taking the piss?', which kind of took the edge off my genuinely-meant compliment.
* Apropos nothing, I came back and thought Glasvegas were just a re-tread of the wonderful Trash Can Sinatras.