Dirty Tricks!

Earlier this week, I was lucky enough to have the chance to watch some good, old-fashioned daytime TV.  By which, I mean Jeremy Kyle.  Obviously.  I used to watch it all the time whilst I was at Uni, and when I was at my last job (not that they encouraged it whilst I was working, you understand – I used to work shifts, which meant that I was often off during the week), and for a while, it was up there with my favourite TV shows (it never quite reached the dizzy heights of Scrubs or The Vicar of Dibley, but it was definitely higher up than Family Guy). 

This week was different though.  Jeremy hadn’t changed, his guests were just as…special as always, but the magic had gone.  I was gutted.  It’s a bit like when you see someone that you had a huge crush on (not that I’ve ever had a crush on Mr. Kyle – bear with me and you’ll see what I’m getting at), then they disappear for a while (maybe they’ve found themselves a girlfriend, last minute holiday or prison sentence), and the next time you see them, you wonder what it was you saw in the first place.  They might look a bit ropey, or be wearing a ridiculous hat, but whatever it is, you just don’t feel the same way anymore, and it’s sad. 

Moving swiftly on, the reason that I was watching families airing their (extremely) dirty laundry for the entertainment of others, is that my Darling Sister bought me tickets to see Dirty Dancing for Christmas (which was a bit special), and we’d decided to go down to London and make a day of it (which was a lot special).  Unfortunately, my Darling Sister is of the same opinion as me – if you’re going to make a day of something, you may as well do it whilst shopping.  It was always going to be a tricky day.

First stop was Topshop (everyone knows that you can’t go to London without visiting Topshop – it would be rude London, Topshop AND yourself), where I decided to treat it as a styling mission, and choose things for Darling Sister to try on, instead of me.  Was she appreciative?  Was she heck – everything I chose, she either wrinkled her nose at (a sure sign of disgust if I ever saw one), or she pointed out ‘That’s really more you than me’.  We left without buying anything, after 45 whole minutes of my ooo-ing and aah-ing in an interested fashion, whilst secretly thinking of anything except that top.  Ooo or that skirt.  Or that bag.  Or that dress.  Or that bag.

From there, Darling Sister wanted to go to New Look, followed by Primark.  We headed off, only to be confronted with Zara.  Yep, the place with the Pretty Dress.  I tried to walk straight past, I really did, but my feet refused to listen to my head, and in I walked (with Darling Sister rushing to keep up).  I looked everywhere, but I couldn’t see the dress – in hindsight, it was probably a good thing, as I may have fallen to my knees sobbing at its beauty (yep, I’m that embarrassing), but at the time I was pretty annoyed.  If you can call stomping out of the shop and muttering rude things about the ethical implications of advertising a dress on the internet and being unreasonable enough not to sell it in stores pretty annoyed.  Some would call it insanely angry (or just insane), but I’m not one of them…

Primark and New Look were no better.  It was the equivalent of taking someone on the Cambridge Diet into McDonalds.  Eventually, after 2 hours of my walking around with a face like thunder/angry pitbull/sulky child, Darling Sister decreed that belts did not technically count as clothes, they came under the banner of accessories, so I could always buy those.  I was torn between pointing out that if she’s forcing me to count shoes and bags as clothes, then surely belts should count too, or taking advantage of her unexpected lenience.  For some reason, I decided to point out the former.  I’m my own worst enemy. 

Eventually, after an emotionally draining afternoon, we made it to the theatre in one piece,  still friends (sort of), and sat down to enjoy the show.  It.  Was.  Awesome.  The audience’s reaction when Johnny said the immortal line ‘Nobody puts Baby in the corner’ was immense – I actually squeaked, like an excited mouse.  I immediately decided to stop forcing myself to the gym, and to take dance lessons instead.  I’m quite a fast learner, surely I’ll be on the stage myself within a couple of months.  And then I’d have to have a costume made especially for me, which would be a terrible shame…and would not even be a little bit like shopping.  At all.  Don’t look at me like that…


2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Amie york
    Feb 05, 2011 @ 19:28:54

    Love ur blog…. i find myself grinning while readin this!!


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