If I had any control, I’d be in the pink

My pecuniary circumstances have always been dire. And they probably always will be. Unless I win the lotto or something. Or one of my kids wins the lotto and gives me a few bob. So I should never be allowed into shops of any kind. I have no cop-on. If something fits me, no matter how shite it is, I’ll buy it. And worry afterwards. So when I went for a long lunch the other day, which involved wine, and decided to go back and look at a pair of bright-pink high sling-backs that I had seen earlier, I should have been dragged forcibly out of the shop. The fact that I can no longer wear high shoes, due to corns and bunions, and should be buying flat, wide-fitting shoes, becomes irrelevant when I have a few drinks. I think I’m Giselle. Anyway, I brought them home and very quickly realised the folly of my ways. They made my legs resemble those of a second row forward. So I went online and scrolled though an endless selection of shoes and bought three more pink pairs. And when I realised I had pressed ‘purchase now’, I put my head in my hands and screamed silently. Before their arrival, I brought the other ones back to the shop and explained that I had had a few drinks before the purchase. When the very nice sales assistant was prompted on her screen for a ‘reason for return’, she queried as to whether she would put down ‘liquid lunch’ and fell around the place laughing. Hilarious, I thought. Because they were sale items, I had to buy another pair straight away. Guess what. Pink and high. And I was stone cold sober. Now I realise I’m unstable. Two days later, the other three pairs arrived. Now I have four pairs of high pink shoes that I will never, ever wear. Such a frightening and unnecessary amount of hassle. Please somebody keep me away from the wine. Or the shops. Or both.