Taxi, please!!

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 5^th 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.

  

But are you defined by the clothes you wear on your back?  By your shopping bags?  I like to think not.  But there’s something almost obsessively indulging about carrying your groceries in Dior, or walking down Oxford Street laden with bags which scream wealth.  Is it about the actual gift, or the wrapping?  Deception can be clever.  But when it comes down to it, you’ll never be worth more than the person you are inside.  Don’t let shiny wrapping paper tint you.  Stay true to yourself.

Watch this space.

Montana