Fashion Party

So my friend invited me to some designer's end-of-year holiday bash, which meant I had to go and buy all new clothes, since I dress like I am

• homeless, and
  
• twelve.

I went to Century 21, because it is close by, even though the slow-moving tourists and the interminable lines and the obstinately uncooperative (read: grossly underpaid) staff make me want to cut someone's head off. But I ended up finding the perfect little Calvin Klein coat for super cheap, and some perfectly ridiculous shoes, which were so uncomfortable and teeteringly high that within 20 minutes of arriving at the party I had to grip the walls as I minced around, making me look like a lush.  It didn't matter though, because the entire party was pretty drunk, with the free booze disappearing fast while the lavish food spread remained completely untouched.  Natch. Eventually I found a third glass of champagne and a nice settee on the penthouse's terrace, took my shoes off and got a foot rub, and forgot all about how inadequate the 20-ish fashionistas make me feel.