Well here I go again. Date number… I’ve completely lost count.
I’m sitting in Bewley’s waiting for The Photographer: I’ve asked to move twice and I finally got a booth. Most awkward customer ever? But a couple of weeks ago I couldn’t have even thought about coming into town let alone asking a stranger on minimum wage for a better seat.
The first table was right inside the door, the heat fan on over the entrance and the double doors open. There’s economic sense. It’s not even cold out. Actually I got the prickly sweats in Brown Thomas, but that could have been the overwhelming scent of Tom Ford and the price of the Michael Kors handbags. Over rated. When I see a designer bag in the crook of a woman’s elbow I usually think “Lack of imagination”. Give me a rummage in a charity shop anyday.
It might be the air conditioning and the loud music but as soon as I step into a high street store (I find small independently owned boutiques less offensive but still can stand only a minimal amount of time browsing), my eyes dry out and a tear stream starts from one of them (contradiction or wha?!), my brain swells, my skin tingles (and not in a nice way) and I have a strong urge to run. Fresh. Air. Please.
This is why I hate shopping. I love clothes. I love style. I’m not a lover of “fashion”. I’d much rather the bottle green and navy satchel my mam got me from the VdeP for a fiver than any logoed generic hold all, which will inevitably end up with the sticky stub of a lollipop, two Tampax, sixteen cent in coppers and an undone to-do list stuck to the lining anyway.
I’m beginning to think I’ve been stood up. That would be awesome. I really couldn’t be arsed making small talk and putting on the first date show all over again.
And I think I parked illegally.
(By the way, I’ve had again, an ok morning and yesterday was alright. I’m finding it necessary to keep moving, keep busy. Distract myself. PietaLady is concerned about this. So are the dogs – there’s only so many lengths of Sandymount they want to walk.)