How fanbloodytastic is that?
Of course there’s only one thing I can do.
Shop.
But first, I need to make a pit stop at McDonald’s in the King’s Road.
I’m walking past Whistles when I see David the Gay Homosexual strolling along past the Body Shop on the other side of the road. A hot wave of shame rolls over me and I duck into a shop so he won’t see me. As I do so, a niggle of doubt gnaws away at my brain. Is he really gay?
Or was the thought of having to poke me so utterly repulsive that he had to pretend?
‘Sod you,’ I say out loud.
‘Sorry? Can I help you?’ asks the lemon-lipped shop assistant.
‘No,’ I say without thinking. ‘You’re a shop assistant, not a relationship counsellor. Frankly, I doubt it very much.’
I leave the shop without another word and trot towards the golden arches feeling glum. Bloody David. Who the hell does he think he is, strutting down the road, gayness unashamedly on display, completely spoiling my day of freedom?
The bastard.
I clatter into McDonald’s and order a Filet-O-Fish and a Big Mac Meal. Who needs men when there’s junk food to be had? Eh? After all, if brown can be the new black and staying in can be the new going out, who’s to say that McDonald’s can’t be the new sex?
Huh?
‘What drink would you like with that?’ asks the acne-riddled assistant.
‘Fanta. No. Coke.’
I forget all about David and losing my job and concentrate on the matter in hand: chuffing down my burger in double quick time. When I’m through, I turn my attention to retail therapy. I take a trip to Lush to drool over jewel-coloured slabs of soap, piled up like Lego bricks, and fizzy bath bombs, heaped on the counter like scoops of sorbet. I spend a fortune on bottles of violet-scented bath oil and orange juice flavour shower gel. I buy blue and white swirled cakes of bubble bath the size of bricks and cutely packaged talcum powder shakers. When I’m done there, I hotfoot it to Georgina von Etzdorf to choose a velvet scarf to see out the winter in. I can’t decide between black and sugar-pink or black and mint-green so I buy both. I deserve it, after all. This is no time for economising. Then it’s time for some more toiletry sniffing in Boots before selecting several CDs, scented candles, Whittard mugs, a jumper from Kookai and four complete sets of underwear.
It’s not until I get home that I realise just how much I’ve spent. Totting it all up, I estimate that I’ve probably shelled out over six hundred quid on mere fripperies in an afternoon. All for the sake of cheering myself up.
And now I’ve lugged it all home, I suddenly don’t feel quite so cheerful any more.
In fact, I’m downright miserable. I look at myself in the mirror, making my ‘come to bed’ face, just to see how pathetically sad I must have looked when I was trying to pull David last night.
Holy fuck.
Do I really look like that when I’m pouting?
The poor bastard must have thought I was constipated.
I call Janice’s mobile. She’s just leaving work.
‘What’s up?’
‘I just lost my job.’
‘You think that’s bad,’ she humphs. ‘You should have seen the mothballed selection I was faced with at that sodding custard cream fest last night.’
‘What?’
‘At the Evergreen Club.’ She sounds mildly irriated. ‘Honestly, Katie, after standing me up I’d have thought you could at least pretend to be interested.’
‘I lost my job.’
God, she can be so insensitive at times.
‘So you said. But presumably you got laid last night to make up for it.’
‘No, actually.’
‘You didn’t?’ She brightens.
‘No.’
‘That’s all right then. I mean I thought my evening was bad. I turned up expecting a few dashing war veterans and what did I get?’
‘What?’
‘Soggy Nice biscuits, dribble and card games.’ She sounds disgusted. ‘I’m going to have to think again.’
‘Oh.’
‘But at least I didn’t lose my job,’ she says. ‘You must be really pissed off.’
‘Thanks, Janice,’ I say. ‘I can always rely on you to make me feel better.’
‘You’re welcome.’ All irony is lost on her. ‘I have had a bit of good news, by the way.’
‘Oh?’
‘I just got put on a really prestigious account at work. For breakfast cereal.’
‘Is that good?’
‘Really good. This giraffe-legged no-burn called Thalia sucked off one of the client’s sons and got found out. She was lobbed out faster than you can say fuckwit. And I got her job.’