For neglecting this blog, for posting few and far between and that too posts which are hurriedly cobbled together within a five minute span that unfortunately, does show, no matter how I might kid myself that I do wondrously entertaining stuff that could put me right up there in the league with the Gods I worship at my bookshelf altar, namely Dave Barry, Jerome K Jerome and the Supreme Diety of them all, P G Wodehouse.
Having got that apology aside, I trust you will still indulge me and stop by occasionally and not stomp off in a virtual huff when you discover this fat woman has not given her fingers a workout today on the thirtysixandcounting blog. These fingers have been rather busy on another blog. The indiahelps blog. So please forgive me. And visit it. And know why I am not in such a cheery frame of mind. It does get a trifle tough to discuss shopping and IT bags when you realise that Rs 1500, what I would normally spend on one lunch out with a friend, can buy an entire family rations to last them a month.
Which brings me to the raison d’etre for this post. Yup, I got meself a halo so huge that if it began whirring, I could probably do a solo flight across the Indian Ocean all by myself, without the added hassle of having to find an aircraft and a trained pilot and such like. The wedding anniversary comes up in a bit, and husband was fluffed with the joy of having managed to endure the obstacle course that comes with being married to yours truly and decided it was worth throwing some largesse around. Hell, he must have read my last whiney post and decided to play Santa. So, I was whisked off to the rarified confines of the suburban five star shopping arcade plus with the kind of brands that causes me to have sharp intakes of breath whenever confronted with the visuals of their products, hung on stick thin, smokey eyed models in print ads meant to make me crawl under my blanket and nibble on more chocolates and their wrappers. Gucci. Bottega Veneta. Jimmy Choo. Aigner. Ferragamo. And of these, three brands were on a 50 per cent sale. We walked in. Look around, says the man. Pick whatever you want.
Yup. Dent in the floor caused by impact of fat woman falling in a fast faint, was to be added to the bill of purchases, saved only by thought of crushing the offspring who was holding onto hand and therefore in extreme risk of being flattened to paper dimensions if trapped under falling self.
Really. Truly. You swear on me and the child and all thats holy. I asked. Repeatedly. The man beamed like a jolly Santa high on grass. I looked around frenetically. Stared longingly at the intertwined Gs dotting the canvas facades in a black weave or a beige and brown print. And the green and red ribbon down the front. And realised that these bags were truly, sincerely, and absolutely not worth the price even on 50 per cent discount. They were all ugly. I held them in my hands and didnt feel even a frisson of the desire to possess and definitely not at 25k where my mind was racing on fast forward to think of the wondrous many Esbedas I could haul away in a box car for that amount. The Bottega Venetas were nice too. But for that price, Calonge is better. Better made and with a similar concept. Forgive me fashion lords, this may be blasphemy and I know I will be cast out with the heretics on this declaration, but it is the pure and simple truth. I just did not like a single bag up there on display.
The smart, impeccably made up salesperson stared at me in disdain as I went from shelf to shelf, trying hard to find a bag that called to me, that I would have to be torn from on my death bed, that I would bother wrapping in muslin and storing in a cupboard when not in use rather than flinging it onto the heap of disused bags in the box under the bed.
And yes, so we left. With the husband shaking his head in disgust. And me firm that I was not spending a penny on such dull as ditchwater bags that didnt make any statement except double Gs interlocked in a pattern that danced in front of my myopic eyes, till I wanted to stare at a blank wall for relief. Yup. Am so not a Gucci girl.
Last I heard, I was still adjusting the halo. And trying to con the man into sponsoring a lasik surgery for them eyes. Would be nice to wake up and not have to flap around furiously for them spectacles and rather just stretch out languidly and be elegant and poised on awaking. Like them Hollywood heroines. Yup. Which would also mean hair impeccably set by elves while I sleep and no eyeliner remnants coagulated in the corners of my eyes, and no monster breath. Ah well. A girl can hope, cant she. Not flapping around in blind batlike manner hunting for them spectacles could be a start.