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with my coat.
    ‘Well … I am sorry but there are other people waitingto try things on,’ the assistant huffed. ‘So perhaps you could deal with your … problems somewhere else.’
    ‘Yes, all right,’ I sniffed. I was tempted to call her a heartless bitch, but instead I just asked, ever so politely, if she would mind closing the curtain so that I could get dressed and continue my meltdown somewhere else.
    I changed as quickly as I could, wiped my eyes and, with as much dignity as I could muster, stalked over to the till to pay for the jeans. Nervous breakdown in front of snooty sales assistant or no, flattering size eight skinny jeans at less than £150 don’t come along every day. You have to embrace opportunities like these when they are presented to you.
    With the jeans purchased, I composed myself and ventured downstairs, to International Contemporary Collections. Since I was already here and had a perfect excuse for indulging in a little retail therapy I felt I might as well carry on. I purchased a gorgeous Vivienne Westwood print blouse and a cute pair of earrings from Juicy Couture before stocking up on some essential beauty things on the ground floor. As I left the shop I realised that I had entered my pin number at the till without even looking at the total. I had no idea what I had just spent and I really, really didn’t care.

6
     
    Cassie Cavanagh will shop if she wants to, shop if she wants to, shop if she wants to
    Two days after Dan broke up with me, the Harvey Nicks bags still lay untouched in the corner of my bedroom. I was, I have to admit, wallowing a bit. After I returned from my shopping trip on Tuesday I’d rung Ali, who hastened round with several bottles of booze. I can’t remember exactly what we drank now. I think she made cocktails of some sort. It’s all a bit of a blur. At some point I crawled under my duvet and have hibernated there for the best part of forty-eight hours.
    Occasionally I’ve surfaced to go to the loo or to pick, half-heartedly, at the contents of the fridge. But other than that I’ve loyally floundered in smelly pyjamas, watching DVDs borrowed from Jez, the bloke from downstairs who, fortunately for me, owns a vast collection of violent action movies and political thrillers. As far as I’m concerned, these are the only genres that can be tolerated post break-up. Far better,in the early days of heartbreak, to wade knee-deep in blood and guts than to weep for lost love, so my usual collection – Love Actually , How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days and various Jane Austen TV adaptations – has been banished indefinitely.
    Needless to say I’m a terrible person to live with at the moment, but Jude has been an angel. She’s brought me cups of tea accompanied by Marmite on toast (even though she loathes Marmite and just the smell of it makes her gag), she’s ventured downstairs to Jez’s flat to exchange Hard to Kill for Kill Harder , she even offered to do my laundry (I accepted). Apart from her initial, knee-jerk ‘that sodding wanker’ comment, she did not bad-mouth Dan at all, she listened sympathetically when I raged about him, she nodded dutifully when I told her how wonderful he was and how I couldn’t live without him and how I must, must have him back.
    However, this, the morning of day three AD (After Dan), Jude woke me at eight thirty brandishing a cup of tea and a determined frown.
    ‘Jesus, Jude,’ I complained, ‘it’s not like I’ve got a job to go to.’
    ‘Precisely,’ she said, snapping open the blinds to reveal skies that looked as grey and miserable as I felt. ‘I know you’re feeling down, but enough is enough. You have to get up and start putting the Recession Buster into action. I want you online by nine a.m., checking out the job sites. Register with some agencies.’ She smiled at me, wrinkling her nose just alittle. ‘And you really ought to think about taking a shower.’
    I clung on to my duvet for as long as possible, only