Read Online Confessions of a Shopaholic by Sophie Kinsella - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sophie Kinsella
Tags: Humor, Literary, Humorous, Romance, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, British, Humor & Entertainment, Romantic Comedy, Contemporary Fiction, Contemporary Women, Women's Fiction, British & Irish, General Humor, Humor & Satire
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points on the moisturizer I use.
I
love
advantage points. Aren’t they a wonderful invention? If you spend enough, you can get really good prizes, like a beauty day at a hotel. Last Christmas I was really canny—I let my points build up until I’d accumulated enough to buy my granny’s Christmas present. What happened in fact was, I’d already built up 1,653 points—and I needed 1,800 to buy her a heated roller set. So I bought myself a great big bottle of Samsara perfume, and that gave me 150 extra points on my card—and then I got the heated roller set absolutely free! The only thing is, I don’t much like Samsara perfume—but I didn’t realize that until I got home. Still, never mind.
The clever way to use advantage points—as with all special offers—is to spot the opportunity and use it, because it may not come your way again. So I grab three pots of moisturizer and buy them. Double advantage points! I mean, it’s just free money, isn’t it?
Then I have to get Suze’s birthday present. I’ve actually already bought her a set of aromatherapy oils—but the other day I saw this gorgeous pink angora cardigan in Benetton, and I know she’d love it. I can always take the aromatherapy oils back or give them to someone for Christmas.
So I go into Benetton and pick up the pink cardigan. I’m about to pay . . . when I notice they’ve got it in gray as well. The most perfect, soft, dove-gray angora cardigan, with little pearly buttons.
Oh
God
. You see, the thing is, I’ve been looking for a nice gray cardigan for ages. Honestly, I have. You can ask Suze, my mum, anybody. And the other thing is, I’m not actually
on
my new frugal regime yet, am I? I’m just monitoring myself.
David E. Barton says I should act as naturally as possible. So really, I
ought
to act on my natural impulses and buy it. It would be false not to. It would ruin the whole point.
It only costs forty-five quid. And I can put it on VISA.
Look at it another way—what’s forty-five quid in the grand scheme of things? I mean, it’s nothing, is it?
So I buy it. The most perfect little cardigan in the world. People will call me the Girl in the Gray Cardigan. I’ll be able to
live
in it. Really, it’s an investment.
After lunch, I have to go and visit Image Store to choose a front-cover picture for the next issue. This is my absolute favorite job—I can’t understand why Philip always offloads it onto someone else. It basically means you get to go and sit drinking coffee all afternoon, looking at rows and rows of transparencies.
Because, of course, we don’t have the editorial budget to create our own front covers. God, no. When I first started out in journalism, I thought I’d be able to go to shoots, and meet models, and have a really glamorous time. But we don’t even have a cameraman. All our sorts of magazines use picture libraries like Image Store, and the same images tend to go round and round. There’s a picture of a roaring tiger that’s been on at least three personal finance covers in the last year. Still, the readers don’t mind, do they? They’re not exactly buying the magazines to look at Kate Moss.
The good thing is that Elly’s editor doesn’t like choosing front covers either—and they use Image Store, too. So we always try to work it that we’ll go together and have a good natter over the pics. Even better, Image Store is all the way over in Notting Hill Gate, so you can legitimately take ages getting there and back. Usually I don’t bother going back to the office. Really, it’s the perfect way to spend a weekday afternoon.
I get there before Elly and mutter, “Becky Bloomwood from
Successful Saving
,” to the girl at reception, wishing I could say “Becky Bloomwood from
Vogue
” or “Becky Bloomwood from
Wall Street Journal
.” Then I sit on a squashy black leather chair, flicking through a catalogue of pictures of glossy happy families, until one of the trendy young men who works
I
love
advantage points. Aren’t they a wonderful invention? If you spend enough, you can get really good prizes, like a beauty day at a hotel. Last Christmas I was really canny—I let my points build up until I’d accumulated enough to buy my granny’s Christmas present. What happened in fact was, I’d already built up 1,653 points—and I needed 1,800 to buy her a heated roller set. So I bought myself a great big bottle of Samsara perfume, and that gave me 150 extra points on my card—and then I got the heated roller set absolutely free! The only thing is, I don’t much like Samsara perfume—but I didn’t realize that until I got home. Still, never mind.
The clever way to use advantage points—as with all special offers—is to spot the opportunity and use it, because it may not come your way again. So I grab three pots of moisturizer and buy them. Double advantage points! I mean, it’s just free money, isn’t it?
Then I have to get Suze’s birthday present. I’ve actually already bought her a set of aromatherapy oils—but the other day I saw this gorgeous pink angora cardigan in Benetton, and I know she’d love it. I can always take the aromatherapy oils back or give them to someone for Christmas.
So I go into Benetton and pick up the pink cardigan. I’m about to pay . . . when I notice they’ve got it in gray as well. The most perfect, soft, dove-gray angora cardigan, with little pearly buttons.
Oh
God
. You see, the thing is, I’ve been looking for a nice gray cardigan for ages. Honestly, I have. You can ask Suze, my mum, anybody. And the other thing is, I’m not actually
on
my new frugal regime yet, am I? I’m just monitoring myself.
David E. Barton says I should act as naturally as possible. So really, I
ought
to act on my natural impulses and buy it. It would be false not to. It would ruin the whole point.
It only costs forty-five quid. And I can put it on VISA.
Look at it another way—what’s forty-five quid in the grand scheme of things? I mean, it’s nothing, is it?
So I buy it. The most perfect little cardigan in the world. People will call me the Girl in the Gray Cardigan. I’ll be able to
live
in it. Really, it’s an investment.
After lunch, I have to go and visit Image Store to choose a front-cover picture for the next issue. This is my absolute favorite job—I can’t understand why Philip always offloads it onto someone else. It basically means you get to go and sit drinking coffee all afternoon, looking at rows and rows of transparencies.
Because, of course, we don’t have the editorial budget to create our own front covers. God, no. When I first started out in journalism, I thought I’d be able to go to shoots, and meet models, and have a really glamorous time. But we don’t even have a cameraman. All our sorts of magazines use picture libraries like Image Store, and the same images tend to go round and round. There’s a picture of a roaring tiger that’s been on at least three personal finance covers in the last year. Still, the readers don’t mind, do they? They’re not exactly buying the magazines to look at Kate Moss.
The good thing is that Elly’s editor doesn’t like choosing front covers either—and they use Image Store, too. So we always try to work it that we’ll go together and have a good natter over the pics. Even better, Image Store is all the way over in Notting Hill Gate, so you can legitimately take ages getting there and back. Usually I don’t bother going back to the office. Really, it’s the perfect way to spend a weekday afternoon.
I get there before Elly and mutter, “Becky Bloomwood from
Successful Saving
,” to the girl at reception, wishing I could say “Becky Bloomwood from
Vogue
” or “Becky Bloomwood from
Wall Street Journal
.” Then I sit on a squashy black leather chair, flicking through a catalogue of pictures of glossy happy families, until one of the trendy young men who works
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