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Last week, on a cold October afternoon, I was haunting the thrift-stores in the rich side of town when I spied an interesting little consignment store I had never seen before, all Victorian patterned bricks and spiky gothic ironwork. EVERYTHING in there was gorge: Gunne Sax prairie dresses, vintage Hugo Boss suits and Elsa Schiaparelli fascinators.
But my eyes immediately locked onto this magnificent pair of pastel pink combat boots.
'Ah yes, a fine choice', said a lisping, stygian baritone voice. I turned around and spied a fey-looking shopkeeper with a scarlet silk dickie (the scarf, not his dong).
'But beware, you must take care to style these - or else you might become a Lesbian!'
Confident in my petite yet voluptuous curves and knowing my style was innately feminine classy, we laughed together as he swiped my boyfriend's credit card and wrapped my purchase in crimson tissue.
For a few days, I did as I was bid, pairing the boots with gossamer skirts and peter pan collars. But one day I got lazy - and donned a flannel jacket. Reality warped and waved around me - my manicure shrunk as my nails were filed down by an unseen laquerista, my Spotify playlist would play nothing but tunes from the 2010 Lilith Fair revival and my boyfie's dickie (the dong, not his scarf) fell off and landed in one of our many cats' food dishes.
...But...when did we get cats?
