It’s not as if we need anymore bedding. But as soon as the enticing thick cardboard invite landed on the doormat, my freelance frugality tendencies kicked in.
I’d upgrade our knackered old towels, get some fluffy new bath mats, and spruce up the guest room with new Egyptian cotton sheets…all at knock down prices. Since WHEN did I give a shit about accumulating this stuff? The fact is, I don’t, but the Chinese gene in me was strong that day and I couldn’t resist the promise of a bargain.
I casually pulled up at 11am and was directed to the overspill car park which was a shiny sea of black family sized vehicles and hoards of women in skinny jeans and suede ankle boots between the ages of 32 – 52.
I entered the hallway, expecting it to be a simple, elegant affair (like the pictures in their mail order brochure) to be confronted by what can only be described as a middle class version of Black Friday, or more accurately White Tuesday.
The place had been open an hour and most of the trestle tables were empty as the Surrey wives descended like a plague of locusts and devoured the velvet bedspreads, bath sheets, terry towelling robes and scented candles in one foul swoop. They operated in pairs, one standing in the hour long queue to pay whilst the other one frantically rummaged, then they swapped places. These ladies were pros. I didn’t stand a chance. Freelance frugality fail.