This recession ought to suit me down to the ground because I hate anything that costs a lot of money. I’m the sort of person who sits in a Michelin-starred restaurant reading the menu and suddenly blurts out, ‘HOW MUCH!? Fifty pounds for a starter?! I’m not paying that!’ and summons the waiter to complain about the prices to the utter despair of my dining companion, who then has to work for the rest of the meal to re-assemble any vestige of style and elegance we might have had when we walked in. This is usually attempted by ordering the most expensive things on the menu while I loll around in paroxysms of agony, gripping at the Michelin-starched tablecloth and suffering an imagined angina attack brought on by fancy living. I then proceed to choke ostentatiously on the delicacies put in front of me and complain about the effect of the rich food on the balance of my digestive system for many hours, and sometimes weeks. It’s simply not worth taking me out for a high-class meal. Something only tastes good to me if it costs about £7. It doesn’t matter how much fois gras and gently coddled quail’s egg you put in it, if an appetiser costs £50 it triggers my gag reflex.
Similarly something can only look good to me if it has a price tag of around £39.99. If an item of clothing costs more than that I start to gather resentments about it and make huge and impossible demands of it. ‘Why have you not made me happier?’ I might ask a designer jacket peeping at me provocatively from the back of the wardrobe where I have pushed it to get it out of my sight.
Consequently I’ve become quite good at buying cheap clothes which look like they might be something fabulous.
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