Nanny #1 thinks there is something wrong with me. She keeps asking me if I’ve bought any new clothes or if I’m going out shopping. I guess the other Fancy Wives she worked for spent more time at Selfridges and less time blogging. Sigh. Seriously, I am just not a big shopper. When I need something, I buy. I don’t shop. And I don’t really need much, to be honest. Sure, a nice new sweater or a pair of jeans is fun and I do usually go travelling to the States with an empty bag, but “shopping” isn’t really my thing. (Which means when I do shop, H has nothing to say. Shush it.)
Unless it’s for the children. There is a Baby Gap around the corner. That’s as Fancy Clothing as they’re going to get. At least until they stop shitting themselves.
Anyway why should I go suffer the humiliation of fluorescent lighting and public indecency? When you are Fancy, certain essentials just seem to find their way to you. For example, here is a list of things I no longer buy.
- · Socks. I get them in Upper Class on the airplane. Haven’t bought a sock since 2006.
- · Hairbrushes and combs. Ditto.
- · Butter knives, hand lotion, Polo mints and pens. Ditto Ditto Ditto. (I should explain the butter knife, shouldn’t I? That was an honest mistake. Twice.)
- · Random art books, classical CD’s and passport holders. (Corporate party swag. I usually steal an extra. I’ll save you one!)
If you come to dinner at my house, it’s possible I’ll serve a chocolate truffle that I got at a Fancy restaurant, stuck in my purse and brought home for guests. It’s really good chocolate, I swear. I was just full and I hate to waste.
You don’t believe me?
I got ready to go for a jog the other day and H stopped me at the door.
“Where’d you get that sweatshirt?” he asked, fingering the thick fleece I’d pulled over my head.
“Where do you think, dope?” I answered, pointing to the “Lufthansa First Class” emblem on the hem.
“Nice. Nice,” he said, enviously.
That’s right. The Fancies also have not bought a single bit of loungewear in the last 5 years. I keep an entire drawer full of airline “sleep suits” in our room, in varying sizes and colors. Come stay the night and you might get to go to Singapore, kiss Richard Branson goodnight, or lace up your Lederhosen.
Can’t buy anything like that at Harrod’s, can you?