God I am such a freaking stereotype, which I hate. I would so much rather be cool and different, swim against the tide, run against the tourists, but on this particular issue there's simply no denying it: I'm a fully signed up member of the Female Cliché. Worse still, what I'm about to admit will trample all over my oft-vaunted attempts to be anti-capitalist, anti-consumerist and left-leaning.
Believe me, I know it shouldn't make me so happy, and for the sake of my political conscience and my bank balance, I truly wish it didn't, but the fact remains: I absolutely, 100% unequivocally, shamefully but unerringly adore shopping.
Last night, after a blissful Friday night stay with Tracey at our friend Charlie's showhome in Essex, featuring drunk dancing in the kitchen, faaaar too much Chinese takeaway, even more Pinot Grigio and nostalgia, a brave Saturday morning run, a long walk along the beach in the suddenly blistering heat and a fantastic and pleasantly tipsy lunch at a seafront restaurant where we all felt like we had been teleported to Marbella (in a good way), I went home to my parents' house for a delicious dinner in the beautiful garden, celebrating what may be our last night out there on a balmy summer's eve before they move - and it was all just so perfect. So when I got to bed last night, you might imagine that I would be fairly self-satisfied, content and at peace. Well: I was. But I also had butterflies, because I had earmarked this morning to travel to Hammersmith and visit Primark.
Clearly I wasn't actually as fussed as I'm implying, as I didn't wake up until just short of midday. But the moment I was able to stand, the butterflies redescended and my shopping excursion loomed ahead like a first date at a top restaurant with an attractive man in possession of an above-average vocabulary. What would be there amongst the racks of cheaply designed items? In a moment of delicious serendipity, would I find a fantastic garment lying discarded on the floor of the changing room? I wasn't sure I could cope with the excitement.
Like the seasoned amateur that I am, upon arrival I did two sweeps of the ground floor and one of the first, before trying on my haul, all the while humming 'I love a party with a happy atmosphere,' the classic mid-Eighties 'hit' by Russ Abbott, which I get in my head Every Single Time I see an Atmosphere label ('So let me take you there, and soon, we'll be dancing in the cool, night air...'). I found a fantastic checked shirt for work, two T-shirts (one useful black, one distinctly inessential striped), a starry top, an amazing hat, a great jumper that will bobble after approx. three washes but for now is divine, a fantastic raincoat, a great bag, a thousand pairs of earrings for about 30p, a makeup bag, two hair accessories, a heart-rate-raising brooch, and a delicious pair of orange wristwarmers. I then unexpectedly pounced on a crazy tartan cardigan on my way to the checkout. All that for £66. By the end I was sated, brimming with the combination of joy, heady effervescence, relief and satisfied calm that only purchasing can provide.
My name's Jane, and I'm a shopaholic. It's a weakness, I'll admit it unreservedly - bad for my attempts to climb to the summit of the moral highground, bad for the child labourers in the East, bad for my finances, bad for the planet. But hey, nobody's perfect. My principles are otherwise fairly intact, so for now, keep that wagon away. I'm not quite ready to give up this buzz. Besides, anything that can make me look forward to getting up on Monday morning has got to be good news. Bonne nuit.
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