Blonde's Eye View: Confessions
Angela Clarke is wondering if honesty is the best policy
I am cheating on my partner. My life is a series of guilty glances over my shoulder. I'm sneaking around, ducking behind corners in a bid not to be caught, hiding the evidence.
I can't keep this up. I'm going to tell him, break it to him gently, try to limit the damage.
Despite swearing I wouldn't, I have been shopping.
There are bags stashed all over the flat, under the bed, at the back of the cupboard.
I can hear my new shoes rustling in their box like the tell tale beating heart of the murdered man under the floorboards.
I have sinned and there is no escape from the mountains of tissue paper stuffed in the bin.
The situation is ridiculous. We live in a liberated society and I can spend my money on whatever I like.
My man is not some controlling ogre, he just fails to understand how I can pop out for a loaf of bread and come back with three new pairs of jeans and a clutch bag.
Except for the odd metrosexual, and I think their numbers peaked a while ago, the way men and women shop defines the differences between the sexes.
My partner only replaces his shoes when his original pair develop holes big enough to stick his finger through.
He owns six in total, and at the last count I had 86 pairs.
My excess is not limited to heels, I have the same vast quantities of skirts, dresses, tops, and trousers, including my latest on-trend hareem pair that he thinks resemble something made for MC Hammer.
Needless to say my collective wardrobe dominates the storage space in our flat, a tiny slither of the second bedroom is reserved for his stuff.
Obviously I can quit shopping anytime I want.
Right after I've found the perfect winter coat. I think I'll just pop out now, before he gets back.