However, in my ongoing bid to become a responsible adult, I decided to take the bull by the horns and do something I’ve never done before.
There’s a special occasion coming up next month and after gazing at my pre-thyroid wardrobe, I realised I really do have nothing to wear.
So. Get this – I booked in for a personal stylist appointment at John Lewis. I know. Me!
I drove into town, parked up and had a coffee in the local bookstore’s cafe, ear-wigging at the French for Extreme Beginners group meeting being held next to me. Quite excruciating, but their seriousness was inspiring. They caught the waiter’s eye and yelled ‘Garcon!’ in unison. Ah.
Anyway, I arrived at the due time this morning and was quickly ushered into a little room full of mirrors. Great start. The lovely stylist made me stand up and turn around. Before I knew it, he’d pulled my loose-flowing shirt tight, showing my muffin top off in all it’s glory.
‘I see‘, he said with a certain level of gravitas.
He dashed off with a rail and I sat there for ten minutes, glaring at Cara Delevigne on the front cover of Vogue.
Against all hope though, Boy Wonder The Stylist arrived back with five garments. Each of them was perfect. Divine. Behind my heavy velvet curtain I sighed and stared at my transformed figure. The clothes were beautiful.
He was a genius. He had picked the perfect outfit. Simple, comfortable, and most importantly, stylish with flat shoes.
I paid and floated out the store on a shopping-induced high before foot-drop tripped me up and me and my John Lewis bag – clothes exquisitely wrapped in tissue – went flying outside the Apple store. Red-faced, I gathered myself together with the help of two pensioners and got back to my car in one piece.
p.s. I’m not actually 42 until 8.04pm tonight.
p.p.s. So I still have a few hours in my very early 40’s.