Dear Zara

Oh how excited I was when you finally came to our shores! How I smiled like a fool when I walked into your Sandton City flagship store and stood dead still for a moment taking in the merchandise that stretched as far as my eyes could see, as a sea of well-dressed hipsters with your trademark navy shopping bags dangling from their Caribbean tanned arms walked past me making their exit.

Oh how delighted I was to find a beautiful pair of tan leather flats with all the elements I'd been looking for to complete my summer holiday wardrobe. How I couldn't resist grabbing a pair of bright pink flip flops for my newborn niece when they beckoned me from your kidswear section. Handing over my hard earned cash was a small price to pay for a retail therapy victory.

Oh how distraught I was when my brand new shoes broke, the delicate 'in-between-my-toes' leather strap snapping away from the sole as I strolled along the promenade with my puppy en route to the beach. How I searched and searched for the receipt with no success. I'd never planned to return the shoes. I'd bought quality. I'd paid top dollar. 

Oh how saddened I was by the outcome of my trip to Zara to exchange the faulty footwear. How frustrated I got when the manager told me that the R499.00 shoes had gone on sale for R199.00 but were now sold out. How speechless I was when I was told that I could only replace my purchase with something in-store to the value of R199.00. 

Oh how hopeful I was when I was told that if I could produce a bank statement proving the purchase amount I could get something for the full purchase price. How confused I became when they asked if I had bought more one item. "No, I bought something else, too" I responded. "Well then a bank statement won't suffice," she said, "we can only accept it as proof of purchase if the amount reflected is the exact amount of the pair of shoes that broke."

Oh how exhausted I was when I gave in, tired of fighting an no-win situation. How I hunted the shop floor for a R199.00 'something' to replace my faulty footwear. How shocked I was when found a pair of R299.00 shoes on sale (marked down from R399.00) that I wanted as 'the exchange' and was told that I would need to pay in R100.00 to complete the transaction.

Oh Zara! How angry it made me to have had to pay YOU for YOUR faulty merchandise. How ridiculous it is that your 'policy' resulted in me spending R599.00 on a R299.00 pair of shoes.

Oh Zara! You need to take a cue from Forever New. A couple of hours before you butchered the Consumer Protection Act, Forever New (Rosebank) had exchanged a skirt that I got for Christmas without a receipt. How? Well, the sales consultant simply asked me where it was bought and when (I phoned the gift giver and answered "Sandton, end of November-ish"), she did a quick check on the system and Voila! I left Forever New with a brand new skirt without having to spend a cent.

Oh Zara! It's a pity you sell such pretty things. How sad it is that your customer service isn't quite so pretty.

Sincerely,

One Unhappy Customer

Personal Torture, um, I mean 'training'...

My latest attempt to de-jiggle comes in the form of a pint-sized pocket rocket who claims to be a personal trainer but, in my opinion, is actually a highly qualified practitioner of jedi mind tricks. You see, not only has she managed to get my wobbly butt and withering calves (not being able to run or wear heels will do that to a girl) to the gym bright and early on a Monday morning but she has managed to make me see wine o' clock as the enemy (Re-read that last sentence if you think you imagined it...) Basically, I'm starting to equate my favourite Sauvignon Blanc with lunges, squats and other forms of legal torture required to undo the calorie consumption.

Bearing in mind that I gave my partner in crime at the gym the nickname of 'The Drill Sergeant' a while back (courtesy of the fact that she single-handedly managed to take me from a coughing, spluttering, sweaty mess who couldn't run 3km's to a half-marathon enthusiast in just six months), when I made the decision to get a personal trainer I thought: "How tough can it be?"

Well, 48 hours after my first session, as I tried not to pass out or toss my cookies midway through the second session, I came to the realisation that personal training was gonna be a little more challenging than I'd initially thought and perhaps, the best way to soldier forward was to rope The Drill Sergeant in... thankfully, my dear friend was only too happy to assist. I think that 'happy' was downgraded to a 'willing' judging by the text message I got from her the day after our first joint session, which pretty much described exactly how I'd felt the week before – basically, every movement (walking, sitting, lying down) felt like I was being stabbed my a swarm of sword yielding ninja mice.

If you thought you saw a pig fly past your window

last Saturday, there's no reason to assume your next purchase will be a straightjacket or that a mushroom courtesy of Fleetwood Mac found its way into your lunchtime wrap. You may very well have seen a flying pig because, you see, the unthinkable happened... 

Hubby spent an entire 8 hours shopping without so much as a whinge, a whine or an 'I've had enough' pout. Surprised? So was I. In fact, if I didn't have fabulous new patio furniture, a 12-piece mirror installation and a couch order to show for it, I too may think that it were all a 'shouldn't have had cheese before bed' dream.

In the three years that I've been a Mrs I have never seen the man on such form. He was a shopping, price-comparing, interior design referencing machine. From Wetherly's to Sutherlands, from Sandton City to Kramerville, from Mistry's to Mr Price, hubby took retail therapy to a new level, putting even this seasoned shoppers stamina, agility and Sales Consultant repertoire to the test...

Garfield and lasagne...

the two things go together like fake tan and cruise ships, like merlot and stinky cheese, and, most recently, like my pavement special pooch and my being overseas for two weeks.

You see, on my arrival back home a few days ago I flung open the front door, let my hand luggage thump to the floor and assumed the position for maximum welcome home cuddles from my adorable puppy. What followed was quite unexpected...

Those who know me...

know that I am what you'd refer to in Sandton circles as 'a heels girl'. Few things set my pulse racing quite like a sky-high, streamlined, expertly fabricated pair of stilettos. When it comes to pursuing calf-defining height I am a purist. Sure I'll mix it up once in a while with a wedge or a solid cowgirl-esque boot but I believe that kittens belong in pet shops and cones are best served up with ice cream. 

So, on a recent trip to the UK, the fact that the footwear department of my luggage contained mostly heels shouldn't come as much of a surprise. Now before you get the urge to chuckle and tease this blogger let me clarify that I left the six-inch skyscrapers at home and made a concerted effort to pack my 'sensible' heels, the kind that I can run up escalators in and are perfectly suitable for chasing after my puppy in the park if need be. As I made the tough calls between black or tan Aldo boots, between Nine West or Europa Art wedges and between matte or patent courts, I imagined myself dashing for the tube, missioning up Oxford street and strutting purposefully between art exhibitions... and came to the conclusion that I was packing the appropriately comfortable footwear.

Let's just say that after day one of exploring Cambridge in my flattest boots – they're barely 2-inches in heel talk – I remembered just why the highest pair of heels I wore during my student days was a pair of vintage cowboy boots...

Because sharing is caring...

Every season I pick up a few great items from my mom-in-law's neighbour, Andy. You see, every quarter she transforms her home into a retail therapy oasis – rails and rails of seasonal fashion, great basics, some gems from overseas and fab accessories. I always walk away with several pretty things and for months afterwards I get the "That's gorgeous. Where'd you get it?" response to my purchases, which doesn't only put a spring in my step it reminds me that when the next Fashion Open Day rolls around I mustn't forget to spread the word. So here it goes...

Leaving the mothership's overrated

Few things inspire panic in a Northern suburbs woman quite like a shopping emergency. With just two weeks to go before hopping on plane to play bridesmaid in Cambridge I got call from the bride-to-be casually saying that she’s decided it best her entourage pick their own dresses for the nuptials. The advantage? I get to avoid looking like the victim of a cupcake explosion. The freak-out? Shopping under pressure is not for the faint-hearted.

After activating the fashion emergency phone tree (most stylish friend, bargain-savvy mother in law and a handful of people who should put ‘professional bridesmaid’ on their CV) I had a plan of action. My mother and I were going to venture out of Jozi, beyond the familiar cobbled streets of Melrose Arch and the freshly revamped corridors of Sandton City, we were going to flex our shopping muscles in Pretoria – and we were going to do it via Gautrain...

What a difference a week makes...

This time last week, I was in possession of all ten of my toe nails, my most recent half marathon time was 02:13 and hubby was planning his next round of golf with his beloved set of clubs.

1. Toe-ing the line

As I type this I am wondering if I will ever have the guts to present my beaten up feet to a beautician for a pedicure again. A punishing run/hobble down Knysna's Simola hill has rendered my feet a little worse for wear. It's only a matter of time before the deep purple toe nail on my right foot bids me farewell. Gross, I know, but just be thankful I resisted the urge to post a picture!

2. The PW (personal worst)

My feet aren't the only thing that took a bruising last Saturday... My ego got a tad 'klapped', too. After a promising start, the Drill Sergeant and I launched out of the starting blocks at a comfortable, well-trained pace. It would later emerge that our pace was somewhat impressive as the boys (The Great Dane and 'Brenda') confessed that it took 5km's to catch us.

Alas! The first half of the run was not to be repeated...

Alice in Wonderland (PART 1)

I feel like a cross between Sarah Jessica Parker and Alice in Wonderland, with a little urban hippie thrown in for good measure. Since 8am this morning, Cape Town's city centre has been my oyster and let's just say I'm making the most  it...

My first stop was AFRAID OF MICE, a curated vintage wonderland that describes itself with the line: "the clothes you wish your mother had kept for you"... Located at 88 Long Street, Afraid of Mice has been featured in Elle and often gets raved about in the blogosphere. I was so keen to try on this little gem myself, that I made it the first must-see on today's vintage shopping hit list. I wasn't disappointed...

Barking mad

I buy my dog outfits. A habit which I thinly disguise as being an absolute necessity and definitely not a Paris Hilton moment.

The following conversation recently took place at my home after I was distracted en route to Pick n Pay by new stock in the Vet & Pet window...

"She really has no body fat," I said to hubby, " and this is a particularly cold winter." "Mmmhmm," he said, knowing exactly where this train of thought was headed. I continued, "I know she already has two but the retro 70s jersey is a bit small and her Sharks jersey isn't lined..." Hubby interrupted briefly to remind me that Sadie is in fact a "d-o-g" but recognising the 'yeah, and your point is?' look on my face decided to give me the benefit of the doubt and relented:  "Kay, let's see it..."