Expensive Tastes

You know what I like, nay, love? Expensive shit. But, not to the point where I’m an airhead bimbo who marries a sugar daddy to get it. That’s just dumb.

Naturally, my lack of money (an occupational hazard of being a student) has prevented me from enjoying such wonders as lobster, crab, fillet steak etc on a regular basis, and my expanding waistline means I’ve had to cut down on the booze and fancy chocolates rather dramatically. But, after losing the best part of a stone, I said “fuck it” and decided to put a bit back on, because my jeans were too big and I couldn’t be bothered to buy any more.

Anyway.

There’s something about me which causes me, no matter the establishment I’m in, to find, and immediately want, the most expensive item in the whole place without looking at the pricetag, only to suffer a crushing disappointment when I can’t have it.

A perfect example. At this crappy restaurant I was at the other day (which I complained about) There was lobster, crab, steak, lemon sole, and other delicious sounding things on the menu, all of which were astranomically priced.

Okay, £22.00 for a steak is way over the top, but it’s kind of expected with lobster.

Another example, at Loch Fyne, a lovely restaurant I would highly recommend, I immediately wanted lobster again, but, remembering I only had so much money, went for scallops.

Again, pricey, but absolutely fucking delicious. I could have had a burger, but to hell with that, I like real food.

A non food related example would be that I was wandering around TKmax, partly out of boredom, partly because Mother was there, and partly because I wanted a new leather jacket, (something I wasn’t to get until two days ago, and this happened a few years ago).

Anyway, wandering about, I suddenly homed in on a stunning purple leather dealio, whose fabric felt like silk, it fitted like a dream, it was warm and breatheable, the colour matched my hair pefectly, and it made me look awesome if I do say so myself.

After preening and posing in the mirror and chatting to myself out loud, drawing the attention of the drab little beetles doing their shopping, I took a peek at the pricetag, wondering if I could beg Mother for an early Christmas present.

It was three

Thousand

Pounds.

Reduced to five hundred, but still.

I dropped it on the floor and got the fuck out. I’m not paying that for a jacket.