“How much does this piece cost?” and “Can you hold this for me until the end of the day?”

Two questions I tend to ask while shopping on the high street. I really only have one question while thifting:

“Why the fuck does no one want this?!”

The weather this weekend has been utterly wonderful, with poor Jade’s beetroot back being evidence of this. My mum was just as unlucky, as she sits there now with shoulders to rival the tomato sauce from the pizza I was good enough not to order tonight. I can tell you now ( and remind myself when I reread this at a later date) that I’ve recently discovered a similarity between this summer sun and my roasted mum: They both hate my taste in clothes.

Faux fur? Boots too large for my average sized feet? Too many layers to count? Horrible, horrible prints? I can’t leave the house without being verbally reminded that I am not only fashion-impaired but that I will, at some stage, sweat to death.

Why wear a dress when you can sweat to death under knitwear which some old man has probably already died in? That’s what I tell myself, anyway…