OK. Now I really am offended. Has the whole neighbourhood been waiting for us to go?
Becky Brandon (Née Bloomwood)
Official Clothes Audit
PAGE 3 (OF 15)
Jeans (cont’d)
J Brand – cropped
J Brand – bootcut
Goldsign – skinny dark
7 For All Mankind – distressed (two sizes too small)
Balmain – black distressed
Notify – black
Notify – black (still in bag never worn)
Theory – skinny stretch
7 For All Mankind – studded
7 For All Mankind – cut-offs
Acne – frayed at knee
Acne – ripped (tags still on)
Cavalli – frayed and sequinned (still in bag)
Paige Premium Denim, – boyfriend
True Religion – grey wide leg
Exercise wear
Stella McCartney yoga pants
Stella McCartney sleeveless top
Black ballet leotard (unworn)
Pink pointe ballet shoes (unworn)
Black leggings – Sweaty Betty
Grey leggings – Nike (still in bag with receipt)
Black leggings ‘Anti-cellulite’ (never worn)
Grey leggings – American Apparel
Hip Hop graffiti dance pants (unworn)
Sequinned ice dance costume
American football outfit (for Hallowe’en party)
Fred Perry tennis dress (white)
Fred Perry tennis dress (pale blue)
Professional drag-racing suit (still in box)
CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE …
CENTRAL DEPARTMENTAL UNIT
FOR MONETARY POLICY
5th Floor
180 Whitehall Place
London SW1
Ms Rebecca Brandon
The Pines
43 Elton Road
Oxshott
Surrey
18 January 2006
Dear Rebecca
Thank you for your letter to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, which was passed to me.
On his behalf, may I thank you for the sentiment that you ‘know how he feels’ and your thoughts on how to ‘get out of this mess’. Your father’s principles of ‘C.B.’ and ‘M.M.M.’ seem sound, as does the advice to ‘look around and sell some things you don’t need’.
Thank you also for the kind gift of Controlling Your Cash by David E. Barton – a book I was unfamiliar with. I am unaware of whether the Chancellor owns a copy, but will certainly pass it on to the Treasury along with the advice to ‘write everything down that he spends’.
With thanks again for your interest
Yours sincerely
Edwin Tredwell
Director of Policy Research
SEVEN
Why have I got so many clothes? Why? Why?
I’ve finally collected them up from around the house and counted them all. And it’s a total disaster. There’s no way I’m going to get through them all in two weeks. Two years, more like.
How can I have so many pairs of jeans? And T-shirts? And old cardigans that I’d forgotten about?
On the plus side, I found a Whistles coat I’d totally forgotten about which will look fab with a belt. And some True Religion skinny jeans which were still in their plastic bag, stuffed under a pile of Lancôme gift sets.
But on the downside, there are about eighteen grey T-shirts, all scraggy and shapeless. I don’t remember buying any of them. And some really mortifying sales buys. And the worst thing is, Luke told Jess I was doing an audit of my clothes and she decided to come over and help me. So I couldn’t do what I was planning, which was to hide all the clothes I hate in a plastic bag and secrete them out of the house.
Jess was relentless. She made me write a list of every item and wouldn’t let me discount anything. Not the disastrous hot pants, not the revolting maroon leather waistcoat (what was I thinking?), not even all those old promotional T-shirts and shoes I’ve got free off magazines. And that’s before we get to the weird Indian clothes I bought on our honeymoon.
If I have to wear that maroon leather waistcoat in public three times I’ll die.
Morosely I look down at myself. I’m in one of my zillion unworn white shirts, with a pair of black trousers and a waistcoat layered over a long cardigan. This is the only way I’m going to survive – by layering as many pieces as possible every day and getting through them that way. Even so, according to Jess’s calculations, I won’t need to go shopping until 23 October. And it’s still only January. I want to cry. Stupid, stupid banks.
I was secretly hoping this whole financial crisis thing would be one of those very quick affairs that come and go and everyone says, ‘Ha, ha, silly us, what a fuss we made about nothing!’ Like that time when there was a report of an escaped tiger on the loose in Oxshott and everyone got hysterical, and then it turned out to be someone’s cat.
But no one’s saying ‘Ha, ha, silly us.’ It’s all still in the papers and everyone’s still looking worried. This morning Mum very ostentatiously ate her toast without jam, shooting little resentful looks at Dad the whole time. I was sunk in gloom, trying not to look at the Christian Dior ad on the back of Dad’s newspaper, and even Minnie was subdued.