New, improved Grit. Part 2

Well this personal shopping malarky is fun. I get sat down in a super plush room like I might be choosing a bridal gown. Not that I ever have chosen a bridal gown, but if I had done, I imagine that this is the sort of room I'd choose it in.

The room is all red plush curtains and gold loops and thick red carpets and smelly scent. It's even got those gold curvy French-style balloon back chairs you might find in a ladies boudoir, if you ever stumbled into one. In fact it is all so deeply luxurious it has super ego written all over. I think I might have to come and live here, even if it is at the back end of a corridor behind a cardboard sales panel at John Lewis.

Here I meet my personal expert, Mrs Fashionista. Mrs Fashionista is dressed in a bright pink jacket and black trousers. Black and colour together. Can you do that? She looks like some sort of colour coded inmate. For a moment I am not sure about this process. I want to run away.

But Pink Lady Fashionista sees my doubt. Perhaps she sees me taking a step towards the door because she comes over all 'There there' and 'Has it been a long time?' and after five minutes of this treatment I want to sink into the boudoir chair and blub and call her my mum.

Pink Lady Fashionista listens to my tale about how children are all woe and hard work and about not having showered properly for seven years yet alone tried on a skirt, and she blithely suggests it'll all be made better and brighter with a new top. Then she thrusts Vogue at me and is off to track down some clothes to try on.

The first outfit is hideous and I say I might pewk if she brings it near me again. She says it's not hideous, it's my boobs which are saggy and I need a proper bra, at which point I tell her she's not my mum anymore, now go off and find something else and less of the boob talk. There's nothing wrong with this bra. It cost me £2 in a sale three years ago and I'm sure it was grey and pink when I bought it.

The second outfit makes me look like a heavyweight English pudding. Admittedly when trying on skirts I should take the socks off, but the colour - a deep dark brown - makes me look connected to the earth a bit too closely for my liking.

The third outfit starts with some black jeans. I like black. Black, black and more black. I like it, except when teenagers wear it, and then it is horrible. Black should be reserved for miserable, old ladies like me who like to think it is smart when really it is just black.

The first choice of top to go with the black jeans is lovely, and I like it. It is a subtle dark green thing with sequins. I can feel the inner girl jump out when the sequins sparkle. Because of it I may need to go home and lock myself in the bathroom in a complete restoration and redecoration project.

The second choice of jumper, is horrible. It is bright blue, unless I am colour blind. Anyway, it is vile on me, even when Pink Lady Fashionista says it is lovely, just put a black necklace with it. Grit says No. Pink Lady Fashionista says It'll brighten you up. Grit digs her heels in. I say I don't like it, I'm not wearing it. Pink Lady says Take the blue. Grit says Go and get a second opinion. She does. Tula, the counter assistant, says the black trousers are nice. 'There you are!' cries Pink Lady triumphantly. 'Now take the blue. it'll brighten you up'. At this point, Grit, being a weedy coward, crumbles under the bullying, and thinks I'll wait until Pink Lady's gone home, then slip the horrible vile jumper back to the Returns counter.

So Grit goes home with black jeans that fit, new boots, a green top thing with sparkly sequins, and a satisfied smile. And for once, the total outfit expenditure cost more than my usual budget of £3.50.