Apple Watch: THE Review

First Born and Cooking Child bought me an Apple Watch. They decided to buy it themselves, chose the style and colour (correctly) themselves, purchased it themselves and, most importantly, PAID for it THEMSELVES. Extraordinarily thoughtful and generous for a 15 and 13 year old. So it’s not exactly my shopping but it was shopped for, so well within the blog’s coverage.

I could not have been more excited to receive the watch. It is one of the best presents I have ever received that was not chosen (and purchased) by me.

Rose gold and blush pink. How very me.

A couple of posts ago I spoke about purchases that make you feel good or bad about yourself….or both, as in the case of the watch.

The watch has many useful aspects. I no longer have to walk around clutching my phone in my hand. My wrist receives all important messages and calls. Useful.

Reagan doesn’t like us checking our phone during gym class. Like all mothers, I don’t like NOT being able to check my phone in case a metaphorical fire that only I am capable of extinguishing befalls my children in the 45 minutes I am separated from my phone. Now I can just surreptitiously check my wrist. Again, useful.

The watch also tells the time.

However, my watch has a nasty habit of bullying me into productivity. The more I do, and specifically the longer I stand, the happier the watch is with me. I don’t need to be pressured into being more productive – I am excellent at pressuring myself all by myself.

At the end of the first day I wore the watch, it tapped me to tell me the following:

The watch was pleased with me. I had been standing for 12 of 12 hours. This was when I first suspected that the watch did not necessarily have my best interests at heart. I want a watch that sees I have been on my feet for even 6 hours, and tells me to sit down with a cup of coffee and have a relaxing scroll on Instagram.

The next day things declined. It was one of those days. You know the ones. School holidays. You think you’re winning because the house is silent and then…..

your 5 year old discovers the joy of stamping, his bare skin the tempting canvas. No inch can be left unstamped.

The kids start fighting and don’t stop. You have to be in 5 different places at once. The kids whinge. The washing piles up as it rains incessantly. The dryer slows down on purpose.

You run around all day and the second you cross the threshold of your home, just as the kids start telling you that they are starving and what is for dinner (even though they KNOW you have been out with them all day and have not cooked a thing yet), your watch taps you and says:

If the kids were not around, you would actually tell the watch to fuck off. Breathe??? BREATHE???? Seriously the least it could do is use its calling capabilities to summon Jimmy Brings for an urgent Shiraz delivery. And Deliveroo Katzys for the kids. The technology is there. Clearly the programmer does not have kids.

Later on that night, after another congratulatory tap & wrist party for standing up the whole bloody day again, it suggests I go for a brisk walk. At 11pm. Because I am SO close to closing my forward motion ring. G-d forbid I go to bed with my rings unclosed. Watch does not care about the safety risk of going for a solo walk late at night. Watch does not care that I have been STANDING THE WHOLE day. NO! All watch cares about is closing its walking ring. If the watch were really clever it would be telling me to breathe again right now because I am close to hyperventilating in outrage.

On the upside, now that I know how long I stand for every day, I feel not a drop guilty for indulging in the occasional foot massage. In the same way that a manicure used to be a spa only indulgence and then were brought to the masses by fast, cheap, US style nail bars, massages have followed suit. A group of girlfriends introduced me to Siam Cabana last year and it remains my favourite (and it’s open til 10pm) but massage bars are everywhere. I now have a foot massage and cocktails tradition with my sister in law…we take each other on our birthdays but we’re thinking of expanding our reasons for celebration beyond two nights a year.

A half hour foot massage allows me to soothe my floor weary feet and write a blog at the same time. Productive. My watch would approve.

XOXO Shopping Girl

Workout worked out

Being healthy is expensive. As I keep telling Working Boy, I am spending money on being healthy now in order to save MORE money later on expensive vitamin supplements and, you know, body part replacements. I have no idea if this is actually accurate but I think it sounds good. I am actually an economist.

You, perhaps, are reading this because, like Shopping Girl, you want to work out. Before you work out WHERE you will exercise, you will need to go shopping. For clothes. Don’t shoot the messenger – I didn’t make the (first world) rules. But the rules dictate, you have to look the part. Luckily, in the last few years, designer exercise gear has taken off and is the most massive industry. It’s gorgeous. It’s addictive. Possibly more addictive than those post-exercise endorphins (I am so slow at exercising it took my body two years to start producing these).

The sad truth (for me who likes icecream) is that when it comes to clothes, nothing goes with cellulite but everything goes with thin. And with that comes exercise.

Feargal Sharkey said that a good heart these days is hard to find. I don’t think he ever looked for good gym leggings or it would have been a very different song. They are indeed, hard to find. Lululemon makes my legging of choice (I am a good eastern suburbs housewife after all). Yes they are expensive. In their defence, they hold in my stomach AND leg flab, and they do this without creating more rolls above the waistband. I’m not looking to create a muffin top whilst giving up my muffin tops.

As an aside, why is it that extra fat on our body is referred to in bakery terms?? Rolls….muffins…..cupcakes (fine, I made that last one up)…..we’ve only just got started talking about our health and it’s inducing a fierce carb craving. I guess rolls make rolls and muffin tops make muffin tops.

Lululemon Fast and free crop

Anyway back to the leggings…they spring back to as new shape (and fat holding strength) after every wash. They are comfortable, they don’t ride up. They don’t fall down. In short long, they are worth it.

One thing I don’t buy at Lululemon is crop tops/ sports bras. In fact I don’t buy crop tops at all. Even in the comfort of my own home, this is me trying to get an overhead crop top on (hopefully without the police coming in at the end).

I don’t have time for that. I need it to take 5 seconds to put on like a normal bra. There’s a hungry 5 year old tyrant at the door, waiting shouting for his breakfast.

The only sports bra (ie that fastens at the back) that Lululemon has, is called a Ta Ta Tamer. Let’s just pause for a moment here. A Ta Ta Tamer. I don’t have Ta Tas. And even if I did, they do NOT need “taming”.

I love the look of so many of the crop tops around. Gorgeous colours, patterns and designs.

All from Style Runner

Now I just have to decide if I want to wake 5 minutes earlier each day to get myself into one. Actually I don’t need to decide. It’s a no. Moving on…..

My gym of choice is Third Space Health. My first prerequisite for a gym is proximity to my home. If it takes me more than 5 minutes to get to exercise, I will talk myself out of going before I get there.

Third Space is friendly and unpretentious. No-one reminds me of my school phys-Ed teachers. This is important. Not having PE classes rates in my top 5 Best Things About Not Being at School….possibly even top 3 and it’s a competitive list.

Third Space run small weights based group classes . It’s more expensive than, say, going for a jog but cheaper than personal training, even though the level of guidance and attention you get is personal. So, on balance, I’d say it’s value. I like a class that is weights based. I feel like I am preventing future osteoporosis (weight bearing exercise!). I also like saying things like “I can deadlift 75kg”. Which is true. I can deadlift 75kg (I told you I liked saying it).

Stay tuned for the next round of advertising starring me and Baby N, right Reagan????

Reagan, the owner and most often my trainer, is one part psychologist, one part physio, one part philosopher and two parts comedian. It turns out I need a bit of funny to get me through a workout. Staff of the Phys-Ed department of Perth College circa the 90’s: take note. If you were funnier, I might have been better at Sport.

Exercise is just one component of being healthy though. I could also get started on the food side. But at some point I would have to type “cacao”. I cannot in all seriousness say “cacao”. I literally cannot keep a straight face whilst saying it. I have a special expression just for saying “cacao”. Cacao is the superior cocoa. Cocoa – meh. Cacao – smug. Cacao, as my insta-friend Nikki would say, is peak Bondi.

But it’s not just cacao’s fault. I’ve run out of time.

Class over. Happy Shopping.

XOXO

A tale of two girls

Once upon a time there lived a girl princess called Lauren. She lived in a very small castle in a very small city called Perth. The princess liked to buy clothes. It was a hobby, if you will. A very expensive hobby. Hobbies generally are.

One day, when Lauren was 13 she bought a t-shirt. A marle grey t-shirt from Sportsgirl that said “Sportsgirl” on it, in pastel letters.

26 years later, the princess was still wearing the t-shirt, albeit to bed. She now lived in a bigger castle in a bigger city.

She rarely shopped at Sportsgirl anymore. Being 39, she accepted that she was not really their target market. She was neither a “girl”, nor sporty. Though had there been a Sportswoman shop, she would not have shopped there either. Sportswoman sounded either too sporty or too middle aged….Lauren wasn’t sure which, but she did not identify with either concept (though that did not preclude her from buying an impressive range of gym wear, nor stopped her turning 40 before the publishing of this post).

She still received Sportsgirl emails, which she normally deleted before reading. Or more likely left unread, which is how she ended up with this particular situation….

One day, quite by accident, Princess Lauren opened a Sportsgirl email. And there was a dress. Not just any dress….an autumn floral boho dress.

It was so her. A little boho, a little floral, a little modest, a little casual….and at $119, it was an obvious choice for Lauren. She bought it, and patiently waited for the endless Sydney summer to subside.

As the temperature dropped (a degree), the princess deemed it cool enough to move to her autumn wardrobe.

She felt great the first time she wore it. Young, fun and a little bit hippy. Dressing a little bit hippy always relaxed the princess….if she dressed like she had not a care in the world, then maybe she would begin to feel like she really had not a care in the world….

The princess felt great all evening…..that is until she saw some video footage of herself. Seated. The dress had ballooned around her and rather than looking a little boho luxe….the princess deflatedly noted that she looked nothing more than fat. Reality jarred loudly with the image in her head.

Despite this, the next norning, Lauren picked up the dress off her floor-drobe, where she had dropped it the night before, and put it back on. The weather was right and the morning was a rush – who had time to conceive of a new outfit and image?

Despite the downfall of the previous evening, The princess felt good again. Perhaps it was more of a daytime dress. She floated off to Westfield to do her fruit and vegetable shopping, feeling like really she belonged at an organic farmers’ market.

It was the perfect fruit and vegetable shopping dress. The produce seemed fresher. The possibilities of providing nutritious fare seemed endless. She instantly became the sort of person who instagrammed eggplants.

She felt great. She was all her insta-inspo in one. She felt all Zimmermann-y, Talitha Getty in Morocco-y, Spell & the Gypsy-y…..she was the human embodiment of cotton gauze and a few sequins….

And then she got to the check out….and she clocked the girl in faded grey skinny jeans, insouciantly ripped, her C&M singlet, Bassike cardigan and Golden Goose trainers whispering effortless cool.

Yes, all of a sudden, Princess Lauren felt all wrong. Boho luxe felt 7 seasons ago….and it felt like completely the WRONG aesthetic to have aligned herself with, even though she did so because most of the time it felt very very right.

Effortless cool lady had an effortlessly cool baby. A seriously cute effortlessly cool baby. Of course she did.

As Princess Lauren’s spring in her step receded, and she began unloading her produce onto the conveyer belt with much less enthusiasm than it had been placed into the trolley with, she caught the eye of effortless cool girl.

“I love your dress,” said the girl. “And it really goes well with your hair”.

“I love your baby,” replied Princess Lauren, feeling once again extremely regal and like the boho princess she had always intended to be. It just took a compliment from a stranger, albeit a stylish stranger, to extinguish the sartorial angst. And prevent an expensive wardrobe overhaul.

Though she did still buy a pair of golden goose trainers on her next birthday.

The End.

XOXO Shopping Girl

Shopping Girl Back to School Lunchbox Special

Hi. Shopping Girl here. I know it’s been a while. I know you’ve read it all before after I’ve disappeared for a few months. Blah blah blah….been so busy…..blah blah….no time to write. Just remember, it’s never because I stopped shopping.

So after 7 lovely-but-rather-long weeks of glorious summer holidays, keeping 4 kids happy, entertained, fed, watered and sun-creamed all day long, the kids are back at school and the term-time chaos, that every parent of a school-age child is familiar with, has begun.

Every night around 10pm (though REALLY intend on changing this to 2pm this year) I begin the mission of making 4 recesses and lunches. (Actually 5….I could be a feminist and refuse to make Working Boy’s lunch because…FEMINISM but then I’d also be an arch bitch because I’m ALREADY making 4 lunches. Feminism is about choice. I CHOOSE to not be a bitch. See? Feminism).

There are SO many rules these days when it comes to school lunch preparation. No nuts. No meat (at our school). Rubbish free. Easy to open. No treats. Ice packs for freshness compulsory. Aim for a protein filled sandwich. Then there’s the child enforced rules…..one only eats jam or cucumber sandwiches. One likes grapes and rice crackers. One likes everything except grapes and rice crackers. One likes yoghurt but only strawberry chobani pouches. One liked yoghurt last week but can’t stand it this week but will have a boiled egg. One won’t eat a boiled egg but will eat an apple. One ONLY likes apples at home but not at school. It really defies belief.

As far as I remember, when I was at school I had a small packet of chips or an Uncle Toby’s muesli bar (chewy not crunchy) for recess and a sandwich (which I mostly didn’t eat) for lunch. I think “making the lunches” must have taken my mum about 5 minutes, between my sister and I. Possibly less. And certainly nothing close to the nightly ordeal it has become for me. There were no rules. There was no agonising. There were no blogs about lunch making.

It is no bloody wonder that year in year out, I am searching for the perfect lunchbox. The perfect lunchbox that will magically make lunch preparation less of a chore.

When the kids were little, I was convinced that if I could just find the perfect kids cookbook then my kids would eat everything. First I bought this:

Clearly my kids were still not convinced because then I bought:

When the pureeing of vegetables and sneaking them into food became too much I bought:

(Totally unrelated fact: when I first moved to Sydney and worked in a no longer existent bookshop in Double Bay, I once served a heavily pregnant Antonia Kidman. I can’t remember what she bought).

I finally realised that no cookbook or recipe was magically going to make my children eat every nutritious morsel I prepared for them. Until this past year when I relapsed and bought:

Every year I come up with what seems to be a Holy Grail lunchbox solution….until it’s not. Then the following year rocks around, and someone comes up with a new lunch box and I think “maybe THIS one will be easy to prepare, easy to clean, easy to open, leak free (following the great soy sauce spillage of 2015), rubbish free, easy to stay cold and somehow make my lunches look a little more Pinterest”.

I also need CHEAP. When Baby N started kindy, I got him a (ridiculously overpriced) Yumbox. In fact, the price was the only thing it didn’t have going for it.

Problem one: if you a buy a lunchbox with 6 sections then you have to prepare 6 different types of food. And whilst that may be nutritious and aesthetically pleasing…I don’t want to have to think of 6 things to put in when I can have a different lunchbox that has 3 sections. I’d end up cheating mostly because a sandwich cut into 6 rectangles only fits by spreading across TWO sections (4 to go still).

Enter Yumbox 2, when the hinges on Yumbox 1 broke (which for $40 they really shouldn’t!). The panino. Less sections. Space for a sandwich.

However I can’t afford to spend $160 on lunchboxes. Moreover I actually have a moral objection to it. I still needed a better solution.

Cheap is key. If I buy cheap then everyone can have two lunchboxes and THEN I can (hypothetically) make the next day’s lunches before they are even back from school #shoppinggirllifehack.

Over the summer, I came across these

It was my perfect lunchbox. For $26 I could have 8 lunchboxes. All the same. No worrying about whose is whose. No-one not knowing where their lunchbox is. It suits the 14 year old as much as the 4 year old. I could see it before my eyes – a lunch making utopia. I clicked “add to cart”, filled in my details and then fell OFF MY SOFA as the whopping $60 shipping from the USA charge was added.

Back to square one. Days turned into nights and still…no lunchbox solution. A heavy, relentless dread of never finding the right lunchbox befell me*. And then came a back to school email from K-mart. A quick peruse revealed these:

They only have blue and pink online now but I picked up a pile of clear ones at my local Kmart. $5 a piece.

Kmart to the rescue, once again.

The same searching occurs with water bottles. Water bottles seem to go through crazes. Last year it was all about the spray bottle. Specifically THIS one:

I’m sure you can all guess that rather than quenching Cooking Child’s thirst, this bottle was mostly used as a spraying weapon, by Baby N.

This year it is ALL about the metal insulated bottle. I got this one at Typo last year….

I was so impressed with it and its water cooling capabilities, that I decided to upgrade Cooking Child to a 1 litre, as he was downing the 500ml too fast. I bought one for Master T too…..his plastic one from last year leaked (Holy Grail water bottles do not leak) and smelled, like plastic ones all end up smelling (not good). Master T returned from school on day one and reported to me “Everyone has one of these water bottles!”. Yep, I am nothing if not on trend with the Year 4 set.

It’s truly amazing how long I can talk about lunchboxes and water bottles for….I guess I’ll have to save name labels and stationary for another time.

XOXO Shopping Girl

* this is not strictly true

My style: Zimmermann with a side of……

I have writer’s amnesia. I cannot remember when I have written something before. I cannot distinguish in my mind between thought, published written word, and drafted but unposted content. As a result, I sometimes have to plough through my own blog and the unpublished drafts to work out whether I have already posted an idea already. As I was doing this just now, in preparation to write another piece, I came across this draft I must have written last summer, when I was last with my family in Perth….I’m not sure why I never posted it but here it is, 9 months later (I guess my blog just gave birth to another post):

If you believe what the magazines tell you, everyone has a personal style. One of my friends once optimistically described mine as “eclectic”. I’m fairly sure that’s a euphemism for inconsistent. Personally I think my look could be called “seasonal”. Or maybe “dressy”. Not because I’m permanently in party wear, but more because I’m pretty much permanently in dresses. Dress-y. I think I have been wearing dresses now almost exclusively for at least 2 years. And although they have been my staple because they are just SO easy to chuck on, I’m starting to emerge from my dress bubble. I can feel the stirrings of a skirt craving…..a gorgeous little skirt like this:

With a soft, plain white t-shirt, the sleeves rolled just-so. It may seem like I’m dress digressing here but there’s a reason I’ve got a skirt yearning…..

There’s something about the onset of a new season that plays around with my image of myself and, perhaps, of who I want to be. I have discussed before the gap between my wardrobe and my actual life. The summer holidays brings out the worst in me. In winter, I can flit between Blair Waldorf preppy

and Bassike minimalism

then segue into a little boho luxe for spring, but come summer I want resort. I want off the shoulder tops and little flippy skirts and strappy, Grecian sandals. I want smooth, golden, lithe limbs (it’s a fantasy okay?). I want to look like I spend my summer days lying on a Greek Island / Tahiti / Byron Bay….even Palm Beach…..and my evenings sipping cocktails and dancing into the night.

In short, I want to be the Zimmermann resort girl, Little Joe Woman, and Ulla Johnson girl all rolled into one. I have spent some time (30 seconds? A minute?) pondering why this ridiculous compulsion overtakes me every summer and I have decided I am not completed deluded. I know I am a pale pink 38 39 year old, mother of four, with cellulite. It’s the feeling these clothes are selling me. Namely relaxation, carefree lack of responsibility……and a little fun.

So this is how I found myself walking / flitting down my parents’ suburban street in a gorgeous Zimmermann floral broderie anglaise day dress

and K Jaques sandals.

In my head I’d spent the morning on the beach and now I’m off for a languid browse in the markets before my siesta. In reality, I’ve spent the afternoon in Timezone, I’m a 15 minute drive from the coast, and I’m off to the park to relieve my sister of her aunty obligations. But in my mind, I’m still an exotic creature, lost in this suburban setting.

I arrive at the park. My sister gives me the once over and opens her mouth. I know she’s seeing what I’m seeing. She’s about to comment on how seldom this suburban street sees such casual, cool yet feminine flair. “You have a Peppa Pig bandaid on your dress” she says, matter of factly.

And as I look down, I see she is right. I peel off the bandaid, and at that moment, I know what my style really is. Zimmermann….with a touch of Peppa Pig.

XOXO Shopping Girl

The Best Muppet Caper

It’s a massive call. But I think I just bought the best thing I have EVER bought.

It’s pink.

It’s fluffy.

If I was a piece of clothing this is what I would be. 

I ordered it in the latest VOSN and it is so perfect and SO me that I know the second I put it on, I will never take it off. 

The jacket looks like a muppet. 

I LOVE The Muppets. 

At some point in my 38.9 year history with my sister, we decided that I looked a little like Janice, the muppet.

Not as much as Donatello Versace looks like Janice. But at some point she started calling me Janice.  And I’ve always felt a strange affinity with her (Janice, not my sister, though her too) …..even though I’m not sure we have that much in common. None of the muppet movies have indicated that Janice is in fact a frustrated-writer-stay-at-home -mother-of-4-small-male-muppets. (Though this evening I discovered that a big smile and long blondish hair are not the only thing that Janice and I have in common….)

Yep I also feel that way a glass of red in, Janice. 

At any rate, the jacket arrived in the post (thanks to the wizardry of Georgy at Coco and Lola) and I looked at it and thought “Muppet”, closely followed by “This jacket is my spirit animal”. 

And even though it’s been about 9 months since I found the time to write. And even though Working Boy has opened his own practice which, in a surprise turn of events, has turned Shopping Girl into Working Girl (although there were some awesome shopping opportunities in furnishing the waiting room – maybe a post at a later stage?) . And even though it’s midnight on a Saturday night……when that Unreal Fur jacket arrived, I knew that even though it won’t get its own outing, it needed its own Shopping Girl post. Quite simply, as I said to Georgy via email, I think it is the best thing I have ever bought. And that, as you would all know, is saying something. 

The second I slipped my arms through those sleeves, I felt like me. Not like “mum”. Or “MUUUUUUM!!!”. Not like a wife. Or Working Girl. Like me. Like Janice. That feeling that money can’t buy, but just did. The person who belts out Lisa Loeb’s Stay as she unloads the dishwasher on a Saturday night. The person who is totally fine with having 4 boys as long as she can buy herself pink fluffy jackets.

Tomorrow I will put on the jacket. The boys will tease me in all my pink fluffiness….but secretly they will love it because they will know that the mum they get in that jacket is the most sincere version of herself. 

Or maybe I am over-dramatising the whole thing, and it’s just a f*cking great jacket and pleasantly soft to hug if your mum is wearing it.

XOXO Shopping Girl

The one in which Shopping Girl’s credit cards are frozen.

Great sunglasses are a must in my line of work. The reason for this is two-fold. And each reason itself is two fold. So it’s more like four fold. I have the good fortune of living in the sunny city of Sydney. Even when it’s cloudy it’s kind of glary. Like all mothers of school aged kids, I spend a lot of time in the car. Sunny city plus time in car equals need for sunglasses. It’s basic maths. 

The world is so bright after 5 hours of broken sleep. Not only do sunglasses shield your peepers from the overbearing enthusiasm of the morning light, they shield the world from all evidence of your sleep deficit AND they make you look good whilst doing both those jobs too! There is something about a great pair of sunnies that just makes you look polished and together. If you ask me, sunglasses are the hardest workers in your wardrobe. 

People say a great pair of shoes makes an outfit, or sometimes a great handbag. But I say it’s the sunnies that make the look. You heard it here first. 

I was in the market for a new pair of sunnies after the arms of my gold Karen Walkers unceremoniously snapped off. One minute it was attached (slightly precariously it has to be said), the next minute my sunnies were without arm. I have to say I wasn’t devastated. The Karen Walkers were no holy grail sunglasses. They were large, and gold, so made a bit of a splash wherever they went, but they had not “got me” like their predecessors, the brown Chloés (of blessed memory), which were perfection in every way (until their untimely death – they jumped straight off my head and landed one floor down). 

I have a few prerequisites for sunglasses (which I overlooked for the gold pair, so blinded I was by their general fabulousness). They have to be largeish, but not too big. No metal bits against my nose. No straight lines across my eyebrows but wide overall (to counteract my long face). They need to feel like part of my face when I wear them, and MOST importantly of all: they need to sit well on my head (where they will spend most of my time). Snug enough that they don’t fall off every time I so much as lean over to strap a child in the car, but not so snug that they give me a headache. They have to suit my face and not make me look perculiar.

So it was VOSN (Vogue Online Shopping Night) a couple of months ago and I noticed that Sunglass Hut had 20% off all purchases. Sunglass Hut has free returns for 90 days. I was determined to find a new pair of sunnies and went in with a strong game plan. 

Until the brown Chloés, I wore black sunglasses. Big, black sunglasses. Like a Hollywood starlet, avoiding the paps, minus the glamourous lifestyle. And minus the paparazzi. Obviously.

One day, I tried on the brown Chloés, and seriously it was a revelation. The brown suited my complexion. They made my hair look golden. They made me look way more glamourous than the large blacks ever had. I was converted. Brown sunglasses all the way.

So back to Sunglass Hut….. I filtered down on the website to all brown and tortoiseshell. Then I shortlisted all the ones that looked most similar in shape to the (deceased) Chloés. And then I ordered them all.

Except I didn’t. I got an error message when I tried to confirm the order. I tried Amex. I tried MasterCard. I tried PayPal. Repeatedly. And then I got a text from Working Boy.

“Westpac Alert: Transaction blocked on card ending **** at ‘Sunglass Hut 3538’ for $1,229.89 at 20:18. If Genuine, reply ‘Yes’. If Fraud reply ‘No’.”

Crap. I am not sure if they were suspicious that someone would buy so many sunglasses in one go. Or whether the fact that Working Boy was, unbeknownst to me, simultaneously trying to pay a large tax bill made them suspicious that someone who had such a stupid tax bill to pay would still be shopping for numerous pairs of sunglasses. But the next moment he got a text saying our cards were frozen and to expect a call in 20 minutes from the bank.

Yep. There I was in the middle of VOSN and my credit cards were frozen. Me. Shopping Girl. Unable to shop. Unthinkable. (Is it just me, or is this turning a little Roger Hargreaves?)


To cut what has already been an uneccessarily long story short, the glasses were purchased, the boxes arrived a few days later. All I had to do was try them all on, choose a pair, pop the losers back in the box, affix the pre-paid returns label, and drop them off at the post box. Easy.

Easy….except that I had done such a good job pre-selecting my short list, that it was actually very difficult to choose. I called in the reinforcements (Working Boy). He owes me HOURS of glassss choosing. Days possibly. 20 minutes later, I took the tags off these:


It has been said that The Devil wears Prada, but clearly I am the exception to the rule.

XOXO Shopping Girl