We all set sale
Like the Taliban of the British high street, we have a list of targets, a plan of action and the ruthless determination of a guided missile: it's time for our first assault on the January sales.
"Well this looks nice," says Annette, as we trot through the doors of a high street store and come face to face with a scene that resembles a United Nations aid drop.
Barely-clothed youths writhe around on a fabric-strewn floor, cramming scraps of clothing into their shopping bags with a glazed and despairing look in their eye.
"It's quite busy," I say. "Shall we try the first floor?"
We jump on the escalator and spend a few minutes gazing at our owl-eyed faces in the mirror opposite, as hip-hop music pumps in the background.
"What do you think 'bump the dunkadunk' means?" asks Annette.
"I'm not sure," I reply. "But I expect it's some kind of street dance."
We are ejected into a massive, open-plan floor teeming with stick-thin prepubescent girls fingering scraps of glittering fabric last seen disappearing up Beyonce Knowles' bottom on MTV.
"What do you think of this?" says Annette, holding up a scoop-neck catsuit.
"Why don't you try something more classical?" I whisper tactfully, nudging her towards a rail of towelling dressing gowns.
Forty minutes later, we drift towards the changing rooms.
Annette disappears into the cubicle and lets out a loud scream.
"What?" I ask anxiously, tearing the door open.
"Nothing," says Annette. "I just caught a glimpse of myself from the side."
A total of one hour and 20 minutes later we leave the premises. Altogether, we have bought a pair of slippers and a scarf worth a mere pound;2.99.
I look at Annette, who vaguely resembles an escapee from Guantanamo Bay.
"Skip HM and go to the pub?" I suggest.
"Don't worry," she yawns, flinging her receipt into a bin. "I've already phoned ahead and ordered us a pint."
Love Kate x.