Archive for April, 2009

So, Maria at Mommy Melee has told us that ‘this week on Girl Talk Thursday we’re talking about a theoretical magical fifty-dollar guilt-free shopping spree’. As she said, ‘holy shit, $50 doesn’t get you very far, does it?’ More to the point though, $50 get you even less far (I can haz bad engrish!) when you have to pay in pounds. Shit, that means my $50 is only worth £33.9117 as of 14:42 today, and I can’t even spend that last 0.17p. So, to get the full worth of my 50, I’m changing it from dollars to pounds.

And the three items under £50 that I would absolutely have to have are:

• Shoes. I need new summer shoes, preferably of the wedge variety. Maybe one of these slingbacks or either of these knot wedges. Ok, I know none of them hit the £50 budget, but maybe I could get two pairs?
• A super dooper ice crusher. Really, I’d like to steal into Starbucks one night and retrieve one of their blenders – they’re amazing! Seeing as crime isn’t really on my list of things to do before I hit 30, I figure one of these should do the trick. I need one, honest. My caipirinhas need one.
• And last but definitely not least, as any addicition needs fuelling, I’d require £50 worth of items from this list. Because there is not enough supernatural romance in this world…

In all honesty, I don’t do much shopping for myself. The last pair of shoes I bought was in January 2008 (and only because I had no shoes to wear to the sister in law’s wedding), my ice is crushed by my regular blender, which is really showing the strain, and I rarely buy books, instead heading to the library or swapping them. Clothes are bought on an as desperately needed basis, and I can’t remember the last time I went shopping just to shop.

That said, we live well. We get by, we’re happy.

I’m on the front page and everything.

Nuff said.

C planted the idea in my head. Last week, whilst we were bemoaning the cost of fresh fruit and veg.

Tooting.  It was my mission for Saturday.  Mangoes and pineapples, in particular.  Guavas and papayas would be a bonus.

The boy wasn’t too thrilled about a trip shopping, but his objections were soon pushed aside when a trip to the park was promised.  He trekked around the pound stores with me (well, you couldn’t imagine finding one in Wimbledon) whilst I searched for items unknown to myself, and tried to persuade me that we should buy a bird feeder and feed, just so he could watch the birds.  I weaseled out of that one.  We don’t get birds in our garden, I said.  It’s true; I’ve never seen one there before.  He dutifully stood by my side in Primark, singing the opening bars of Disturbia but he didn’t share my excitement upon hearing of the new, bigger store opening next weekend. 

Two undercover markets, mirrors of each other.  Fruit and veg at seemingly bargain prices, money transfer, African and Carribean foods, baseball caps, butchers, hair extensions, fishmongers, material for African and Asian dress and nail bars.  The smell assails your senses as you walk over the concrete paths: acrylic, meat and fish.  We looked at the fish in the pet shop; they held more interest than lovebirds or hamsters.  He begged for the rest of the afternoon, “Mum, can we have a pet?”

The boy stared at crabs and octopuses at the fishmonger, but one thing held his attention more than others: the pigs’ heads at the butchers.  The broiling chickens had nothing on these beasts (although he may beg to differ if you reminded him that the butcher dangled one just inches from his face).

I’ll never forget the sight of a sheep’s head in a Peckham butchers, stripped of its skin but still wearing its eyeballs, resting in the display.  It was like a creature from a horror movie.  But a pig’s head, well, that’s nothing but bacon.