Divine intervention. Somewhere up in that sodden sky of ours, there’s a fashion god who really likes me. The anecdotal evidence I’ve acquired to prove said theory is such that I could cosmically combust at any given moment. But that would be messy so I’ll just tell you.
My father’s Claddagh ring which I mysteriously lost last September and for which I hounded every conceivable saint in the Catholic canon, appeared like Bobby Ewing only yesterday. Much like said reprised Dallas character, its presence has now nullified an entire season of believing it had been pilfered by a rogue magpie; whereas it was actually stuck in one of my many sparkly shoes. Mistaken magpie identity – it happens.
As luck would have it, I was also the recipient of a rarefied text harbouring details of a designer sample sale. The 70% discount was enough to make me set my alarm early the following morning, only to have thrown my clock across the room at the loud noise disturbing me up on a weekend. How dare it.
Having woken up much later, a bit like Pam Ewing, to find that the whole storyline was over, I felt confused (Did I dream I bought ten Pauric Sweeney bags?); bitter (No, because you missed it!); and more cheated than a primetime audience.
Eager to redress the sketchy plot, my late arrival coincided with an equally tardy delivery of swag; one which I systematically acquired and to which I dedicated a small victory dance. Hurrah!
My hallowed streak then culminated in a hatrick of sorts when an obsessive-compulsive pal insisted on packing my holiday suitcase for Spain. As she assiduously fit ten days’ (and nights’) worth of poolside clobber into a 10kg bag under a half hour; I caught up on East Enders with a hot scald. Everyone wins. (Why didn’t I think of this last summer?)
This spate of luck was making me cocky. All I wanted was for the gods to tweak my script just a tad more. Perhaps have JR Ewing sidle into Kimmage and tell me he was staging intervention on Sue Ellen - yet again. This time it would be her wardrobe, the contents of which he would bequeath unto me (season 7 turban included!). Divine – yes; plausible – perhaps not. Ah well, God loves a trier.
