Until relatively recently, I thought I had seen just about everything in the way of persuading silly women to part with their cash.
Oh boy was I wrong…
The wife of one of the more intelligent grandsons brought it to my attention with a snort of derision. It seems she had received a birthday present list from her sister – which included specific items of ‘yoga wear’ from a company we shall refer to as X to protect the innocent. Man, oh man, do they know how to charge. We could see nothing on their webshite under fifty quid, and as granddaughter-in-law so succinctly put it she certainly don’t like her sister in the financial bracket that madam’s specific wants fell into.
We laughed a bit and sent the offending bitch a subscription to a cookery magazine (given that she don’t cook and barely eats).
However, this piqued my curiosity so I spent an instructive hour researching ‘exercise’ clothing.
Leggings ranging in price from a hundred quid to a grand.
Tit squashing ‘support tanks’ fifty quid to the sky.
Socks at fifty quid a pair. (Somebody is gonna be so pissed off when the sock fairy nicks one of them bastards.)
Cashmere ‘warm down’ suits (whatever the feck they are) with a starting price of around £250.
Even my friend Mavis’ favourite granny shop sells these cashmere trackies by another name… I have now checked with Mave who says she wouldn’t be seen dead as the cashmere stuff is all beige – her taste runs more to hot pink, fuchsia and tomato red. But I digress.
I quick add up on m’fingers had me reaching for a ciggy.
I reckon that to join the yoga generation you have to spend upwards of a grand on clothing, plus a yoga mat, a course of classes presided over by a stringy man whose wedding tackle seems about to escape the confines of his strangely shapeless underkecks, and a Nissan Leaf (other electric cars with slightly less silly names are available) to arrive in.
I may be old. I may be fat. But flip me at least I have never spent a young fortune in order to be miserable…