kate spade fur, smythson bag, manolos, el cheapo jeans that cost £19.99
Thank God for incisors. At the weekend, I channelled my snarly brown bear worn above, gnawed through the bars of my cage and made a bid for sweet freedom.
I wandered hither and thither and headed to an old whisky bond jam packed with Georgian antiques.
Antiques: love them or loathe them? You know how Billy Bob Thornton has that peccadillo whereby he wakes up screaming in the middle of the night having been touched up by an antique tallboy? They're as polarising as the Gaza Strip.
Everything that caught my eye cost £20,000 and every time my husband said: "I like this" I took one look and said: "No you don't."
I need one thing between now and May, a summer coat. I know, I know. I live in the rain slaked capital of Europe, why have I not realised this before now? I blame acid rain /the Chernobyl fallout, it has rotted my brain.
Brora's latest honey beckoned seductively to me from the window, like an upmarket Amsterdam hooker, I liked its slouch and it's now on my maybe list, I'm just not entirely sure that I'm the tweedster type.
In fact, no, it's just not me.
Spotted this in the latest issue of The New Yorker. There has probably never been a better time to be an analyst.