Clear out your wardrobe.
I threw out 57 pairs of jeans last night, convinced that they made me look fat. I shall be spending Christmas in my pyjamas, which is just as well given that I seem grimly determined to spend much of it on Grand Canal Street.
Shop for shoes.
By the time I reached the third branch of the same shop in search of elusive size eights, my feet had swollen to a size eleventeen and the fucking things didn't fit anyway. Instead, I came home with a pair that cost me €8 and make me look like a glam rock golf enthusiast. Gold flats with beige laces. Fashion won't know what's hit it.
Purchase a party frock.
I came home with a cream lace babydoll number that makes me look like I'm making my first holy communion. It will go well with the shoes. In an admirable refusal to learn from my first mistake, I then went on to purchase a tartan babydoll number which makes me look like a Bay City Rollers groupie. It too will look only smashing with the shoes.
