Confession Of A Shopaholic Quotes

I love new clothes. If everyone could just wear new clothes everyday, I reckon depression wouldn’t exist anymore.

Life would be a lot easier if conversations were rewindable and erasable, like videos. Or if you could instruct people to disregard what you just said, like in a courtroom.

Everyone's moving on without me, into a world I don't understand.

A man will never love you or treat you as well as a store. If a man doesn’t fit, you can’t exchange him seven days later for a gorgeous cashmere sweater. And a store always smells good. A store can awaken a lust for things you never even knew you needed. And when your fingers first grasp those shiny, new bags…

Rule of life. If you bother to ask someone’s advice, then bother to listen to it.

Ok. don't panic. Don't panic. It's only a VISA bill. It's a piece of paper; a few numbers. I mean, just how scary can a few numbers be?

There's nothing like your mother's sympathetic voice to make you want to burst into tears.

They said I was a valued customer, now they send me hate mail.

Shopping is actually very similar to farming a field. You can't keep buying the same thing, you have to have a bit of variety. Otherwise you get bored and stop enjoying yourself.

When I shop, the world gets better, and the world is better, but then it's not, and I need to do it again. (Confessions of a Shopaholic-the movie)

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about what could have been. It’s too unbearable.

For years now I've kind of operated under an informal shopping cycle. A bit like a farmer's crop rotation system. Except, instead of wheat, maize, barley, and fallow, mine pretty much goes clothes, makeup shoes, and clothes (I don't bother with fallow). Shopping is actually very similar to farming a field. You can't keep buying the same thing, you have to have a bit of variety. Otherwise you get bored and stop enjoying yourself.

This is a test, isn't it? It's like choosing out of three caskets in a fairy tale. Everyone knows the rules. You never choose the gold shiny one. Or even the quite impressive silver one. What you're supposed to do is choose the dull little lead one, and then there's a flash of light and it turns into a mountain of jewels

I did a lot of shopping for her in Tokyo because the colors here are very conservative. A shopaholic would have a coat in every color and lots of accessories

you can always find something you want.

We all fail to appreciate each day just how much we already possess. Light, air, freedom, the companionship of friends.

So I buy it. The most perfect little cardigan in the world. People will call me the Girl in the Gray Cardigan. I’ll be able to live in it. Really, it’s an investment.

You look... amazing!" And I have to say, I agree. I'm wearing all black - but expensive black. The kind of deep, soft black that you fall into. A simple sleeveless dress from Whistles, the highest of Jimmy Choos, a pair of stunning uncut amethyst earrings. And please don't ask how much it all cost, because that's irrelevant. This is investment shopping. The biggest investment of my life. I haven't eaten anything all day so I'm nice and thin and for once my hair has fallen perfectly into shape. I look... well, I've never looked better in my life. But of course, looks are only part of the package, aren't they?

And maybe now you'll start treating everybody with respect. Not just the people you think are important.

That moment. That instant when your fingers curl round the handles of a shiny, uncreased bag—and all the gorgeous new things inside it become yours. What’s it like? It’s like going hungry for days, then cramming your mouth full of warm buttered toast. It’s like waking up and realizing it’s the weekend. It’s like the better moments of sex. Everything else is blocked out of your mind. It’s pure, selfish pleasure.

And we spend the rest of the evening getting very pissed and eating ice cream, as we always do when something good or bad happens to either one of us.

I mean, when I think about it, what's more important? Clothes - or the miracle of new life?

Life would be a lot easier if conversations were rewindable and erasable, like videos.

I honestly feel as though I’ve run an obstacle course to get here. In fact, I think, they should list shopping as a cardiovascular activity. My heart never beats as fast as it does when I see a “reduced by 50 percent” sign.

Christmas shopping! I can do all my Christmas shopping here! I know March is a bit early, but why not be organized? And then when Christmas arrives I won't have to go near the horrible Christmas crowds.

As I stare at it,I can feel little invisible strings,silently tugging me toward it. I have to touch it. I have to wear it. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

My parents watch too many soap operas, that's their trouble. In fact, they were probably hoping I was pregnant. By my wicked married lover whom they could then murder and bury under the patio.

I can do this, I tell myself firmly. I can be attracted to him. It's just a matter of self control and possibly also getting very drunk. So I lift my glass and take several huge gulps. I can feel the bubbles surging into my head, singing happily "I'm going to be a millionaire's wife! I'm going to be a millionaire's wife!" And when I look back at Tarquin, he already looks a bit more attractive. Alcohol is obviously going to be the key to our marital status.

I know friends should be supportive of each other's life decisions and all that.

Thinking back, perhaps it took me longer than it should have to guess that he wasn't playing ball, so to speak. In fact, he actually had to punch me in the face get me off him - although he was very apologetic about it afterward.

Above all, staring at my old bedroom ceiling, I feel safe. Cocooned from the world; wrapped up in cotton wool. No one can get me here. No one even knows I'm here. I won't get any nasty letters and I won't get any nasty phone calls and I won't get any nasty visitors. It's like a sanctuary. I feel as if I'm fifteen again, with nothing to worry about but my Homework. (And I haven't even got any of that.)

If you bother to ask someone’s advice, then bother to listen to it.

Forse sono priva di quel particolare gene che ti fa maturare [...] Tutti stanno andando avanti senza di me, verso un mondo che non comprendo.

Remember what I used to tel you when you were a little girl? ‘A fool and her money soon part.’ Current-day translation? Stop pissing away your assets at Bloomingdale’s.

La vita reale non è veleggiare per Knightsbridge in taxi o scegliere valigie da mille sterline. No, questa è la vita reale. A casa in un minuscolo appartamento che puzza ancora di curry, una pila di lettere minacciose della banca che ti aspettano, e tu che non hai la minima idea di che fare al riguardo.

You need some accessories. Some businesswoman-type accessories.” “Like what? A Filofax?

And anyway, who defines “real life”? Who says “real life” is property ladders and hideous pearl earrings? “Shit-boring tedious life,” more like.

They were even talking about buying a bodyguard, can you believe it? I mean, what on earth would I look like, turning up with a bodyguard? Actually, I'd look pretty cool and mysterious, wouldn't I? That might have been quite a good idea.

I love the Unsuggester, a feature of the books site librarything.com: enter a book you’ve recently read, and it’ll provide a list of titles least likely to appear alongside it on other people’s bookshelves. Tell it you’re a fan of Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason, and it’ll suggest you read Confessions of a Shopaholic by Sophie Kinsella. And maybe you should.

Rebecca,” she says coolly, grasping my hand. “You’re on Successful Saving, aren’t you?” “That’s right,” I say, equally coolly. “It’s very good of you to come today,” says Alicia. “I know you journalists are terribly busy.” “No problem,” I say. “We like to attend as many press conferences as we can. Keep up with industry events.” I feel pleased with my response. I’m almost fooling myself. Alicia nods seriously, as though everything I say is incredibly important to her. “So, tell me, Rebecca. What do you think about today’s news?” She gestures to the FT under my arm. “Quite a surprise, didn’t you think?” Oh God. What’s she talking about? “It’s certainly interesting,” I say, still smiling, playing for time. I glance around the room for a clue, but there’s nothing. What’s she talking about? Have interest rates gone up or something? “I have to say, I think it’s bad news for the industry,” says Alicia earnestly. “But of course, you must have your own views.” She’s looking at me, waiting for an answer. I can feel my cheeks flaming bright red. How can I get out of this? After this, I promise myself, I’m going to read the papers every day. I’m never going to be caught out like this again. “I agree with you,” I say eventually. “I think it’s very bad news.” My voice feels strangled. I take a quick swig of champagne and pray for an earthquake.

Oh God, there’s nothing like your mother’s sympathetic voice to make you want to burst into tears.

I want to create spaces for people to enjoy, not admire. There’s a bit of the child in all of us. Life’s too short for minimalism.

anyway, who defines “real life”? Who says “real life” is property ladders and hideous pearl earrings? “Shit-boring tedious life,” more like.

You know Alicia, don’t you?” Luke is saying, and he gestures to the immaculate blond girl beside him.

Alicia,” he says abruptly, “that’s Maggie Stevens coming in. Could you—” “Absolutely,” she says, trained like a racehorse, and starts to move smoothly toward the door. “And Alicia—” adds Luke, and she quickly turns back. “I want to know exactly who fucked up on those figures.

We’re in one of the bigger conference rooms and there must be about a hundred chairs arranged in rows, facing a podium and a large screen. I open my notebook, write “Brandon Communications” at the top of the page, and start doodling swirly flowers down the side. Beside me, Elly’s dialing her telephone horoscope on her mobile phone. I take a sip of champagne, lean back, and prepare to relax. There’s no point listening at press conferences.

Hello, Philip?” I say into the receiver—then immediately I wish I’d said something thrusting and impressive, like a simple “Yep.

Just because he lives in Harpenden and thinks anyone who doesn’t live in lovely leafy suburbia is mad.

Thanks,” I say again. Then I glance at Alicia, and feel a little dart of triumph. She looks utterly deflated.

You always liked this one, I think,” says the nice blond girl, taking out a shimmering gray-blue scarf from the pile in front of her. Oh God, yes. I remember this one. It’s made of silky velvet, overprinted in a paler blue and dotted with iridescent beads. As I stare at it, I can feel little invisible strings, silently tugging me toward it. I have to touch it. I have to wear it. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The girl looks at the label. “Reduced from £340 to £120.” She comes and drapes the scarf around my neck and I gape at my reflection.

As I arrive at Brandon Communications, I can feel myself begin to relax. I do have three whole hours, after all. And my scarf is safely behind the counter. No one’s going to steal it from me. There’s a sign up in the foyer saying that the Foreland Exotic Opportunities press conference is happening in the Artemis Suite, and a man in uniform is directing everybody down the corridor. This means it must be quite big. Not television-cameras-CNN-world’s-press-on-tenterhooks big, obviously. But fairly-good-turnout big. A relatively important event in our dull little world.

A waiter offers me a glass of champagne and I take two. One for now, one to put under my chair for the boring bits.

I count out the money in tens and twenties and wait, almost shivering as she ducks behind the counter and produces the green box. She slides it into a thick glossy bag with dark green cord handles and hands it to me, and I almost want to cry out loud, the moment is so wonderful. That moment. That instant when your fingers curl round the handles of a shiny, uncreased bag—and all the gorgeous new things inside it become yours. What’s it like? It’s like going hungry for days, then cramming your mouth full of warm buttered toast. It’s like waking up and realizing it’s the weekend. It’s like the better moments of sex. Everything else is blocked out of your mind. It’s pure, selfish pleasure.

She’s also got a suntan, which must mean she’s just come back from Mauritius or somewhere, and suddenly I feel a bit pale and weedy in comparison.

Usually what happens is, I spend half an hour lusting after scarves in Denny and George, then go off to Accessorize and buy something to cheer myself up. I’ve got a whole drawerful of Denny and George substitutes. “Hi,” I say, trying to stay calm. “You’re … you’re having a sale.” “Yes.” The blond girl smiles. “Bit unusual for us.” My eyes sweep the room. I can see rows of scarves, neatly folded, with dark green “50 percent off” signs above them. Printed velvet, beaded silk, embroidered cashmere, all with the distinctive “Denny and George” signature. They’re everywhere. I don’t know where to start. I think I’m having a panic attack.

Please let the press conference be short, I pray. Please don’t let the questions go on too long. Please God, please let me have that scarf.

As I walk along the pavement I’m feeling a bit shamefaced. I should have got out my 120 quid and given it to that man for his baby, instead of buying a pointless scarf. I mean, when you think about it, what’s more important? Clothes—or the miracle of new life? As I ponder this issue, I feel quite deep and philosophical. In fact, I’m so engrossed, I almost walk past my turning.

Did you get it all right?” he says, frowning slightly. “What?” “Your aunt’s present.” “Oh yes,” I say, and swallow. “Yes, I … I got it.” “Is that it?” He gestures to the bag and I feel a guilty blush spread over my cheeks. “Yes,” I say eventually. “I thought a … a scarf would be nice.” “Very generous of you. Denny and George.” He raises his eyebrows. “Your aunt must be a stylish lady.” “She is,” I say, and clear my throat. “She’s terribly creative and original.” “I’m sure she is,” says Luke, and pauses. “What’s her name?” Oh God. I should have run as soon as I saw him, while I had a chance. Now I’m paralyzed. I can’t think of a single female name. “Erm … Ermintrude,” I hear myself saying. “Aunt Ermintrude,” says Luke thoughtfully. “Well, give her my best wishes.

and they took Philip on some fantastic research (ha-ha) trip to Thailand last year—so we’re never allowed to say anything except how wonderful they are. Like that’s really any help to our readers.

Oh God. “I … ahm … I’m going to …” I stop feebly and clear my throat, feeling rather sheepish. I can’t tell this man that my urgent business consists of picking up a scarf from Denny and George. I mean, a scarf. It’s not even a suit or a coat, or something worthy like that. “It’s not that important,” I mumble. “I don’t believe that,” he says nicely. Oh, now I feel awful. I glance up—and thank goodness, it’s my stop. “Good luck,” I say, hastily getting up. “I really hope you get there in time.

Until tomorrow?” I say desperately. Oh God. She’s pulling a face. Doesn’t she understand? “I’m afraid not,” she says. “We’re not supposed to reserve sale stock.” “Just until later this afternoon, then,” I say quickly. “What time do you close?” “Six.” Six! I feel a combination of relief and adrenaline sweeping through me. Challenge, Rebecca.

Like today, she’s wearing an orange chiffony shirt over a pair of white cotton trousers, espadrilles, and a big wooden necklace, the kind I could never wear in a million years.

You can go straight to Westminster from your press conference.” What? I stare at the phone in horror. No, I can’t pick up a bloody report. I need to pick up my VISA card! I need to secure my scarf. “Can’t Clare go?” I say. “I was going to come back to the office and finish my research on …” What am I supposed to be writing about this month? “On mortgages.

No,” says Elly. “Do you?” And we both start to giggle, until some old bag from one of the nationals turns round and gives us an angry glare. “Ladies and gentlemen.” A piercing voice interrupts us and I look up. It’s Alicia, standing up at the front of the room. She’s got very good legs, I note resentfully. “As you can see, the Foreland Exotic Opportunities Savings Plan represents an entirely new approach to investment.” She looks around the room, meets my eye, and smiles coldly. “Exotic Opportunities,” I whisper scornfully to Elly and point to the leaflet. “Exotic prices, more like. Have you seen how much they’re charging?

Everyone's moving on without me, into a world I don't understand

Double advantage points! I mean, it’s just free money, isn’t it?

I can’t,” I say almost crossly, taking it off again. “I’m not seeing him.” “How come?” “I’m not seeing him anymore.” I try to give a nonchalant shrug. “Really?” Suze’s eyes widen. “Why not? You didn’t tell me!” “I know.” I look away from her eager gaze. “It’s a bit … awkward.” “Did you chuck him? You hadn’t even shagged him!” Suze’s voice is rising in excitement. She’s desperate to know. But am I desperate to tell? For a moment I consider being discreet. Then I think, oh, what the hell? “I know,” I say. “That was the problem.” “What do you mean?” Suze leans forward. “Bex, what are you talking about?” I take a deep breath and turn to face her. “He didn’t want to.” “Didn’t fancy you?” “No. He—” I close my eyes, barely able to believe this myself. “He doesn’t believe in sex before marriage.” “You’re joking.” I open my eyes to see Suze looking at me in horror—as if she’s just heard the worst profanity known to mankind. “You are joking, Becky.” She’s actually pleading with me. “I’m not.” I manage a weak smile. “It was a bit embarrassing, actually. I kind of … pounced on him, and he had to fight me off.