On Friday morning a work colleague asked me if I wanted to go to Prada in our lunchbreak. I had walked past the new store on Hay Street many times, admiring its gleaming surfaces and beautiful handbags, but I had resigned myself to the fact that there was never any reason for me to go into Prada. Prada doesn't sell banana's or baby wipes or any of the other toddler items I spend my lunch break rushing around for. So, I admired it from afar and respected its beauty.
My friend picked out some sunglasses. We admired the gorgeous bags and wallets and marvelled at the Sales Assistants, calling us Maam, with their perfect red lipstick and matching nails.
We wandered upstairs. Exquisite clothes and shoes. And then I spied them. Pink and black ballerina flats with a patent black bow. $550. I sighed. Such perfection, such quality. I smelt them. I touched them gently. I even stroked them. And I put them back on the shelf again.
I can't justify spending that kind of money on myself. Yes, I'd have pretty feet and I'd probably get a few admiring glances, but I wear a pair of patent blue shoes that I picked up in London for 20 pounds a few years ago and they are just as nice as Prada ballerinas.
Maybe one day I might treat myself to something from Prada. In the meantime, I'm happy to know I got my little taste.
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