By the end of the afternoon even a double espresso and a slab of rocky road didn’t make a dent on the shopping fatigue.
We hadn’t been to every shop in London but my feet could have sworn otherwise.
Even though we stopped to refuel on a big stack of pancakes with bacon, maple syrup & poached eggs; (which I inhaled at brunch time) by the last few shops we had definitely started fading.
Rhodora handed me another pile of frocks and thrust me into a changing room, I’d then emerge to await her critique. This might involve a conversation about a massive necklace or she’d rummage around for a belt to hurl around my waist whilst she’d look at my reflection in the mirror with her head critically angled to one side. After one too many failed outfits the conversation just stopped. I’d open the door expecting to be pulled about and sleeves or neckline adjustments to be made but if the ensemble really failed to meet her high expectations Rhodora would just silently close the door of the changing room to hide herself from the sight. I couldn’t help but burst into giggles at the mock distain on her face, at least by this point I knew she was mucking about…
…I didn’t know whether or not she was joking when she dressed me in this at the beginning of the outing. I’m still not sure; does this say “resourceful home cook” to you?