Recession solutions from Victoria Gallagher-O'Houlihan
WHEN THE next election for Catwalk Director comes along, I’ve a good mind not to vote for a certain company president. I’m serious this time.
Really. I’ve blogged and tweeted about it. It is bad enough that Briony insisted we replace all of our venture capital (again) even though she was the one who frittered it away. I mean, we all knew sacrifices had to be made if we wanted to keep hanging out at our outlets in Dundrum and Powerscourt. We all understood that if she didn’t pay her connection in Milan it was the end of our Versace discount for sure. And we were happy enough to cough up the funds a second and third time in order to keep her man on the inside sweet.
If only we’d known how sweet. It turns out Briony’s fashion insider is a boy-skank with an inexplicable ability to persuade lovely girls to “help out” with his credit card bills.
Can you imagine our collective surprise when our little fashion import label received a notice to cough up eight billion yoyos? And, in a moment of cluelessness, Briony had agreed to look after all of the original boy-skank’s loose gentlemen friends as well.
Suffice to say, daddy’s head accountant had a complete hissy fit when he saw the books. He doesn’t seem to understand that we had to do what we did: give all of the employees of our small business venture 250k a year or they’d have had to shop in Tesco.
We can’t afford to fall out with Briony over her financial improprieties. Where else would we go? Gillian’s taste in hats is far too questionable for us to trust her as a catwalk buyer. And Eithne just isn’t presentable enough to front a cottage industry. She’s like 36, for Clooney’s sake! It’d be like choosing between Gaga and Cher.
I may not have many deeply held beliefs, but this much is clear: I am not wearing meat dresses or lasso es without underwear.
Anyway, after all this, the Chanel tote is the final straw. When I order a Chanel tote through my own company with my own money, I expect the strap to be sturdy. And I do not expect it to break right in the middle of the Workingmen’s Club.
I was so angry over this appalling wardrobe malfunction that I decided I wanted a refund even more than a tote. So I went to Briony, who sent me to her boy- skank. But his company is like flat broke. So then I had to pay my refund out of my own purse. I couldn’t even claim it back on the company expense account because daddy’s accountant is super strict that way.
Not to be outfoxed, I had my assistant call the manufacturer in France. Except it turns out the straps are outsourced to China. I could not be crosser with the Chinese right now.
Anyway, being a bit of a whiz at high finance, I’ve come up with a genius solution for all our money troubles. The girls and I will just have to spend Christmas on the lookout for a sucker to “absorb” our debts. I may not understand why anyone would want to buy debts, but as an eligible young fashion filly I do know this: there’s always one. Qatar beckons.
