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Re­ces­sion so­lu­tions from Vic­to­ria Gal­lagher-O’Houli­han

The Irish Times - Friday - The Ticket - - Opinion -

WHEN THE next elec­tion for Cat­walk Di­rec­tor comes along, I’ve a good mind not to vote for a cer­tain com­pany pres­i­dent. I’m se­ri­ous this time.

Re­ally. I’ve blogged and tweeted about it. It is bad enough that Bri­ony in­sisted we re­place all of our ven­ture cap­i­tal (again) even though she was the one who frit­tered it away. I mean, we all knew sac­ri­fices had to be made if we wanted to keep hang­ing out at our out­lets in Dun­drum and Pow­er­scourt. We all un­der­stood that if she didn’t pay her con­nec­tion in Mi­lan it was the end of our Ver­sace dis­count for sure. And we were happy enough to cough up the funds a sec­ond and third time in or­der to keep her man on the in­side sweet.

If only we’d known how sweet. It turns out Bri­ony’s fashion in­sider is a boy-skank with an in­ex­pli­ca­ble abil­ity to per­suade lovely girls to “help out” with his credit card bills.

Can you imag­ine our col­lec­tive sur­prise when our lit­tle fashion im­port la­bel re­ceived a no­tice to cough up eight bil­lion yoyos? And, in a moment of clue­less­ness, Bri­ony had agreed to look af­ter all of the orig­i­nal boy-skank’s loose gentle­men friends as well.

Suf­fice to say, daddy’s head ac­coun­tant had a com­plete hissy fit when he saw the books. He doesn’t seem to un­der­stand that we had to do what we did: give all of the em­ploy­ees of our small busi­ness ven­ture 250k a year or they’d have had to shop in Tesco.

We can’t af­ford to fall out with Bri­ony over her fi­nan­cial im­pro­pri­eties. Where else would we go? Gillian’s taste in hats is far too ques­tion­able for us to trust her as a cat­walk buyer. And Eithne just isn’t pre­sentable enough to front a cot­tage in­dus­try. She’s like 36, for Clooney’s sake! It’d be like choos­ing be­tween Gaga and Cher. I may not have many deeply held be­liefs, but this much is clear: I am not wear­ing meat dresses or lasso es with­out un­der­wear.

Any­way, af­ter all this, the Chanel tote is the fi­nal straw. When I or­der a Chanel tote through my own com­pany with my own money, I ex­pect the strap to be sturdy. And I do not ex­pect it to break right in the mid­dle of the Work­ing­men’s Club.

I was so an­gry over this ap­palling wardrobe mal­func­tion that I de­cided I wanted a re­fund even more than a tote. So I went to Bri­ony, who sent me to her boyskank. But his com­pany is like flat broke. So then I had to pay my re­fund out of my own purse. I couldn’t even claim it back on the com­pany ex­pense ac­count be­cause daddy’s ac­coun­tant is su­per strict that way.

Not to be out­foxed, I had my as­sis­tant call the man­u­fac­turer in France. Ex­cept it turns out the straps are out­sourced to China. I could not be crosser with the Chi­nese right now.

Any­way, be­ing a bit of a whiz at high fi­nance, I’ve come up with a ge­nius so­lu­tion for all our money trou­bles. The girls and I will just have to spend Christ­mas on the look­out for a sucker to “ab­sorb” our debts. I may not un­der­stand why any­one would want to buy debts, but as an el­i­gi­ble young fashion filly I do know this: there’s al­ways one. Qatar beck­ons.

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