Therapy.

I didn't even want to go.

A bad hairdressers' experience and renewed feelings of rejection had me in pathetic flood of tears the whole afternoon and all I wanted to do was dive into bed and wallow in my angst. But I'd promised my mum I'd go: it was our annual tradition to do the Harrods January sales. We bonded over cooing at luxury bags and picking new scents. So off I went, my face wobbly from holding back tears. I stroked premium leather totes and people-watched to my heart's content. With 30 minutes left until closing, we trekked to shoe heaven all the way up on fifth, and there they were.

'Ahhh' I recognised the shape right away. Sleek and understated, I pulled them off the shelf and tried them on. Perfect (well actually, a tiny bit snug but anything can be broken in if you truly believe in yourself). I checked the price tag and couldn't believe it - £49.

Forty-nine shitting pounds.

Having recovered from my mild heart-attack, I strode right up to the still and bought them (with a further 10%). By this time, I was elated. Obviously, my hair still looked shitty and I was still nursing a sore heart, but by God, I just bought a pair a damn sexy boots and I was happy. Even if it was for a little bit.

x

*Retail therapy is totally a thing. It's an unsustainable thing, but it's still a thing.