Park Lane & Mayfair

I wouldn’t call myself a fussy girl as much as I wouldn’t call myself a prude. I like things to be a certain way, but I’m adaptable.

But I hate to be dissatisfied.

There have been incidences recently when I have had an idea of something in my mind, and then it has gone off on a completely different tangent. In fantasy, it’s easy to make something up; in real life, it can be so different. This is why I believe you should plan much but expect little back – that way, the element of expectation decreases to a manageable level. And the reason for me writing this today? Well, it all started early this morning…

I’m a shopaholic; there’s no denying that. I should check into The Priory this year because it’s getting out of control. Anyway, I had another shopping date with Victor– he has accompanied me on many shopping trips – and this time, he promised we would search for a cocktail dress for me for tonight. You see, Victor is a patron of a West London children’s charity, and they were holding a casino night to raise funds. Considering it was being held at the Cumberland Hotel, Victor wanted to treat me to something elegant. I knew he wanted to show me off as much as possible, with me saying as slight. He always picks the best escorts, and I don’t want to blow my trumpet; I’m one of the finest out there.

So we traversed the length and breadth of Oxford Street, sauntered over to Oxford Circus, meandered through Carnaby Street, took the tube down to Kings Road and finally ended up at Selfridges. I must have dragged that man into a dozen boutiques, shops and departments, searching for a special outfit for a special occasion. (It did feel like payback, though, as he submitted me to a foot-aching trip all over the shopping centre precisely a month ago). I knew what I wanted, and I think he knew what he wanted me in, but neither of us could seem to agree. If he had been my boyfriend, we might have come to blows in Monsoon if the shop assistant hadn’t suggested he stand outside the changing room for two minutes to browse menswear. I patiently explained to her, “I want something mid-length and elegant. How hard can it be?”

Eventually, we ended up in Pronovias, a Bridal/occasion boutique on Brompton Road. “Victor” practically snarled that he didn’t care anymore as long as we walked out with something. So I walked in, chose the dress myself, and he handed over the plastic. Thankfully, it was a fantastic choice, and he seemed to cheer up. We arrived back at my flat half an hour ago, and I sent him off to recover with a double whiskey while I jumped in the bath.

So now I have about five hours to de-fuzz, smooth and buff myself into the dress while hoping to God that he appreciates it. Well, I don’t have to open my mouth unless I’m putting a glass of champagne to my lips, so all’s well that ends!

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