Sometimes I sit and wonder how Carrie Bradshaw can afford to take the bright yellow New York cabs every day. It even keeps me awake at night. The way she can afford Prada and Gucci, Jimmy Choo and Givenchy, as if it were normality. The look on her face as she wonders past a shop on 5th avenue and waltzes right in, clutching the $400 stilettos to her bosom as if they were her very own baby. And here’s me, a student whose limited income comes from a few shifts at a Devon pub and the occasional ironing job. Trust me, I’d
like,love to be writing for Vogue. $2 a word. The phrase sounds delectable. I swear all my articles would be five pages long filled with three letter words. With an airbrushed photo of me in my $1,095 Kurt Geiger’s and D&G jersey. If only…
But there’s something quite nice about saving pennies and finding bargains. Carrie doesn’t know New Look and their £19.99 heels. She could never possess that smug feeling of wearing a Primark dress when everyone thinks it’s Topshop. I don’t like feeling guilty. I like telling people I spent £3.99 on a T-shirt from Asda; not £85 just because someone sewed a (wonky) Abercrombie label onto the bottom left hand corner.
Watch this space.