Yesterday I was in the city for a friend’s book launch. It took place at the ‘Paris’ end of Collins Street; a street, many of us will know, known for its high-end fashion stores.

I admit, I was looking alright. As I walked out the door Adam said, “Damn – you look all arty!”

[Please, for clarification, ask him what he meant because I haven't the foggiest.]

After the launch, I went for a look-see at the shopping. I walked past Gucci and Saba and Chanel. I spied Jimmy Choo and Chloe shoes in windows. But I did not go inside.

You see, I am self-conscious when it comes to going into these sorts of stores. I feel all ugly and out-of-place. I feel embarrassed, even, which is why I usually avoid them altogether. I mean – who needs that?

Not yesterday, though. By the time I got to Leona Edmiston I thought to myself, “F*ck it. Go inside. Don’t be intimidated.”

So I did, and got the usual, “May I help you?” from a 20 year old beauty the size of my hairbrush. I said, “I’m just browsing” and expected that to be the end of the conversation. 

But this girl was nice.

“Hey, I love your boots!” she said and from her tone I could tell she was being genuine.

“Hey thanks,” I gushed back, ready to be her new best friend.

[For anyone interested they were a pair of 37 and a half Zoe Wittner chocolate brown knee-highs (no heel)]

Ah – shopping. Life blood of the compulsive and the compliment-starved women of the world.