We shopped till we dropped ... the cake

Re­tail­wasn’t best form of ther­apy

Evening Express (Extra Edition) - - NEWS -

cream, mousse, sponge and berries. At the check­out, I in­structed Mary Por­tas to lift the cake from the trol­ley. Sadly, the feel gype used only one hand, which suc­ceeded in ex­e­cut­ing a per­fect, 180 de­gree flip of my cake, en­sur­ing the straw­ber­ries and cream splat­tered, face down, across the wires, sponge akimbo. For what seemed like ages, we stood WE’VE been promised

an “ur­ban vil­lage” on the site of the Broad­ford Works for nearly 20 years. Over and over again, it’s hit by fire­bugs as it crum­bles into dis­re­pair. Surely it’s long be­fore time that the owner, oil ty­coon Ian Sut­tie, told the coun­cil what his plans are. Or will the site fes­ter on?

IWAS fair ower the moon when my EE re­vealed the House of Fraser is re­turn­ing to Aberdeen. I’ve been lost with­out it. Many’s the HoF wed­ding out­fit I bought and I don’t mind ad­mit­ting I’ve wowed many a pairty in one of its sparkly tops. So for a decade of spe­cial oc­ca­sions, I’ve been strug­gling. What­ever’s the op­po­site of shopa­holic, that’s me. I ab­hor traips­ing around malls. I de­test try­ing on stuff when even the fit­ting rooms are too lit­tle for me. I much pre­fer go­ing hei­die doon into a cat­a­logue. Up un­til a few weeks ago, I’d set foot in Union Square only twice. How­ever, all that changed when my quine started ma­ter­nity leave and she be­came my re­tail ther­a­pist, drag­ging me round ev­ery shop from Stoney to Clatt. But the ses­sions with my very own Mary Por­tas haven’t come easy. On our way to Union Square last week, sez me (try­ing to show off) to her: “I be­lieve there’s a Tex Mex here. Is it any good?” She to me: “Don’t know where you mean. Didn’t know you liked Mex­i­can food.” Si­lence from both. Me affa at a loss but afraid to say why. Sud­denly, my quine: “Mum, please don’t tell me you mean TK Maxx.” That was it! The next day, in bril­liant sun­shine, I grabbed my new, pre­scrip­tion sun­glasses and we sped off for a browsie round Rae­moir Gar­den Cen­tre. Once in­side, she to me: “Take off those sun­specs.” Me: “I can’t. I left my nor­mal ones at home and I need these for walk­ing about.” Slow out­put of frus­trated breath by my side, then the hiss: “For good­nesssss sss­sakesss. You look like some celeb try­ing not to get recog­nised.” Tough. How­ever, she’s not the shop­ping guru she thinks she is. Pic­ture the scene at Costco last Fri­day when she was help­ing load up good­ies for my week­end faim­ily gair­den pairty. (Posho? Moi?) My piece de fine piece was a huge straw­berry “bavois” – an ex­plo­sion of mo­tion­less, star­ing at my ex-bavois – as if it would sud­denly loup up and mend it­self. I then ut­tered some words of lov­ing ap­pre­ci­a­tion to my child while the charm­ing, al­beit amused, Cosco wi­fies cleaned up the wreck­age and pre­sented me with a re­place­ment. Thanks girls. So now it’s proved. My kid re­ally can shop till she drops.

FANCY SPLAT: The posh straw­berry cake took at a tum­ble dur­ing a trip to Costco.

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