Shopaholic Takes Manhattan
Page 2
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Besides which, everyone knows good luggage is an investment.
“I’m just making a cup of tea,” says Suze. “D’you want one?”
“Ooh, yes please!” I say. “And a KitKat?” Suze grins.
“Definitely a KitKat.”
Recently, we had this friend of Suze’s to stay on our sofa — and when he left he gave us this huge box full of a hundred KitKats. Which is such a great thank-you present, but it means all we eat, all day long, is KitKats. Still, as Suze pointed out last night, the quicker we eat them, the quicker they’ll be gone — so in a way, it’s healthier just to stuff in as many as possible right away.
Suze ambles out of the room and I turn to my case. Right. Concentrate. Packing. This really shouldn’t take long. All I need is a very basic, pared-down capsule wardrobe for a romantic minibreak in Somerset. I’ve even written out a list, which should make things nice and simple.
Jeans: two pairs. Easy. Scruffy and not quite so scruffy.
Tshirts:
Actually, make that three pairs of jeans. I’ve got to take my new Diesel ones, they’re just so cool, even if they are a bit tight. I’ll just wear them for a few hours in the evening or something.
Tshirts:
Oh, and my embroidered cutoffs from Oasis, because I haven’t worn them yet. But they don’t really count because they’re practically shorts. And anyway, jeans hardly take up any room, do they?
OK, that’s probably enough jeans. I can always add some more if I need to.
Tshirts: selection. So let’s see. Plain white, obviously. Gray, ditto. Black cropped, black vest (Calvin Klein), other black vest (Warehouse, but actually looks nicer), pink sleeveless, pink sparkly, pink—
I stop, halfway through transferring folded-up Tshirts into my case. This is stupid. How am I supposed to predict which Tshirts I’m going to want to wear? The whole point about Tshirts is you choose them in the morning according to your mood, like crystals, or aromatherapy oils. Imagine if I woke up in the mood for my “Elvis Is Groovy” T-shirt and I didn’t have it with me?
You know, I think I’ll just take them all. I mean, a few Tshirts aren’t going to take up much room. I’ll hardly even notice them.
I tip them all into my case and add a couple of cropped bra-tops for luck.
Excellent. This capsule approach is working really well. OK, what’s next?
Ten minutes later, Suze wanders back into the room, holding two mugs of tea and three KitKats to share. (We’ve come to agree that four sticks, frankly, doesn’t do it.)
“Here you are,” she says — then gives me a closer look. “Bex, are you OK?”
“I’m fine,” I say, rather pink in the face. “I’m just trying to fold up this insulated vest a bit smaller.”
I’ve already packed a denim jacket and a leather jacket, but you just can’t count on September weather, can you? I mean, at the moment it’s hot and sunny, but it might well start snowing tomorrow. And what happens if Luke and I go for a really rustic country walk? Besides which, I’ve had this gorgeous Patagonia vest for ages, and I’ve only worn it once. I try to fold it again, but it slithers out of my hands and onto the floor. God, this reminds me of camping trips with the Brownies, trying to get my sleeping bag back into its tube.
“How long are you going for, again?” asks Suze.
“Three days.” I give up trying to squash the vest into the size of a matchbox, and it springs jauntily back to shape. Discomfited, I sink onto the bed and take a sip of tea. What I don’t understand is, how do other people manage to pack so lightly? You see businesspeople all the time, striding onto planes with only a tiny shoe-box suitcase on wheels. How do they do it? Do they have magic shrinking clothes?
“Why don’t you take your holdall as well?” suggests Suze.
“D’you think?” I look uncertainly at my overflowing suitcase. Come to think of it, maybe I don’t need three pairs of boots. Or a fur stole.
Then suddenly it occurs to me that Suze goes away nearly every weekend, and she only takes a tiny squashy bag. “Suze, how do you pack? Do you have a system?”
“I dunno,” she says vaguely. “I suppose I still do what they taught us at Miss Burton’s. You work out an outfit for each occasion — and stick to that.” She begins to tick off on her fingers. “Like… driving outfit, dinner, sitting by the pool, game of tennis…” She looks up. “Oh yes, and each garment should be used at least three times.”
God, Suze is a genius. She knows all this kind of stuff. Her parents sent her to Miss Burton’s Academy when she was eighteen, which is some posh place in London where they teach you things like how to talk to a bishop and get out of a sports car in a miniskirt. She knows how to make a rabbit out of chicken wire, too.
“I’m just making a cup of tea,” says Suze. “D’you want one?”
“Ooh, yes please!” I say. “And a KitKat?” Suze grins.
“Definitely a KitKat.”
Recently, we had this friend of Suze’s to stay on our sofa — and when he left he gave us this huge box full of a hundred KitKats. Which is such a great thank-you present, but it means all we eat, all day long, is KitKats. Still, as Suze pointed out last night, the quicker we eat them, the quicker they’ll be gone — so in a way, it’s healthier just to stuff in as many as possible right away.
Suze ambles out of the room and I turn to my case. Right. Concentrate. Packing. This really shouldn’t take long. All I need is a very basic, pared-down capsule wardrobe for a romantic minibreak in Somerset. I’ve even written out a list, which should make things nice and simple.
Jeans: two pairs. Easy. Scruffy and not quite so scruffy.
Tshirts:
Actually, make that three pairs of jeans. I’ve got to take my new Diesel ones, they’re just so cool, even if they are a bit tight. I’ll just wear them for a few hours in the evening or something.
Tshirts:
Oh, and my embroidered cutoffs from Oasis, because I haven’t worn them yet. But they don’t really count because they’re practically shorts. And anyway, jeans hardly take up any room, do they?
OK, that’s probably enough jeans. I can always add some more if I need to.
Tshirts: selection. So let’s see. Plain white, obviously. Gray, ditto. Black cropped, black vest (Calvin Klein), other black vest (Warehouse, but actually looks nicer), pink sleeveless, pink sparkly, pink—
I stop, halfway through transferring folded-up Tshirts into my case. This is stupid. How am I supposed to predict which Tshirts I’m going to want to wear? The whole point about Tshirts is you choose them in the morning according to your mood, like crystals, or aromatherapy oils. Imagine if I woke up in the mood for my “Elvis Is Groovy” T-shirt and I didn’t have it with me?
You know, I think I’ll just take them all. I mean, a few Tshirts aren’t going to take up much room. I’ll hardly even notice them.
I tip them all into my case and add a couple of cropped bra-tops for luck.
Excellent. This capsule approach is working really well. OK, what’s next?
Ten minutes later, Suze wanders back into the room, holding two mugs of tea and three KitKats to share. (We’ve come to agree that four sticks, frankly, doesn’t do it.)
“Here you are,” she says — then gives me a closer look. “Bex, are you OK?”
“I’m fine,” I say, rather pink in the face. “I’m just trying to fold up this insulated vest a bit smaller.”
I’ve already packed a denim jacket and a leather jacket, but you just can’t count on September weather, can you? I mean, at the moment it’s hot and sunny, but it might well start snowing tomorrow. And what happens if Luke and I go for a really rustic country walk? Besides which, I’ve had this gorgeous Patagonia vest for ages, and I’ve only worn it once. I try to fold it again, but it slithers out of my hands and onto the floor. God, this reminds me of camping trips with the Brownies, trying to get my sleeping bag back into its tube.
“How long are you going for, again?” asks Suze.
“Three days.” I give up trying to squash the vest into the size of a matchbox, and it springs jauntily back to shape. Discomfited, I sink onto the bed and take a sip of tea. What I don’t understand is, how do other people manage to pack so lightly? You see businesspeople all the time, striding onto planes with only a tiny shoe-box suitcase on wheels. How do they do it? Do they have magic shrinking clothes?
“Why don’t you take your holdall as well?” suggests Suze.
“D’you think?” I look uncertainly at my overflowing suitcase. Come to think of it, maybe I don’t need three pairs of boots. Or a fur stole.
Then suddenly it occurs to me that Suze goes away nearly every weekend, and she only takes a tiny squashy bag. “Suze, how do you pack? Do you have a system?”
“I dunno,” she says vaguely. “I suppose I still do what they taught us at Miss Burton’s. You work out an outfit for each occasion — and stick to that.” She begins to tick off on her fingers. “Like… driving outfit, dinner, sitting by the pool, game of tennis…” She looks up. “Oh yes, and each garment should be used at least three times.”
God, Suze is a genius. She knows all this kind of stuff. Her parents sent her to Miss Burton’s Academy when she was eighteen, which is some posh place in London where they teach you things like how to talk to a bishop and get out of a sports car in a miniskirt. She knows how to make a rabbit out of chicken wire, too.
