‘I just spent £60 on a dress I didn’t need’ I blurted out.
It felt like a confession.
‘I’m going to stop shopping’ I continued.
‘I’m not going to buy anything for myself for a year’.
The others laughed.
It was clear they didn’t believe me.
They’d seen my wardrobes – filled to bursting with dresses wigs and scarves – they’d heard me squeal with excitement trawling through charity shops and jumble sales.
They’d browsed the rail I’d moved into the loft – filled entirely with vintage dresses.
I haven’t historically spent a lot on clothes – preferring ‘retro’ and second-hand clothing to high end or high street.
I’d much rather fritter £12 on a musty-smelling skirt from the 1970s than £50 on a pair of socks from Selfridges but nevertheless I was drowning in ‘stuff’.
And half of it I’d probably never even get around to wearing.
It felt grotesque to have so much when all around me people had so little.
And did I really need it?
Did it make me happy?