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A woman with kids is the toughest customer. Mothers are like seasoned betters at the race-track. They shop for the throng. They can spot a deal a mile away and when they do, bang! the trap goes up and they’re off. Their negotiation skills would put a Wall Street trader to the test.

I don’t blame them. Money is tight. Everyone wants a bargain. I’d be more sympathetic if I didn’t hate shopping. I’d rather wear my younger sister’s hand me ups. My clothes are acquisitions rather than purchases. Some found, others gifts, some are borrowed items never returned, many are impulse buys. I do my bit to be different, but I’m pretty low maintenance. Don’t we all end up looking the same anyway? The only real differences are moods and personalities. Better to enhance those.

August has been a month of robust mood enhancers.

Back to July. I came up with the deadly idea to clean up my act, cut out the vices and take on a new perspective. Since then things have pretty much nose-dived (which incidentally is why new year’s resolutions are so fucking useless).

It began with a random rendez-vous. A boy – let’s call him Spider – caught my attention. Now Spider has a penchant for powder and while I’ve always been able to take it or leave it, if it’s around I might indulge. I’ve known Spider for years but it wasn’t until he went to the trouble of delivering flowers to the shop that I stood up and took note. Yes, there was a love letter with the flowers. Tres romantique.

We had a few dates. All late at night. He cooked for me. We sat on his roof terrace overlooking the Med; the stars above lighting the view of the north African coastline, crickets humming in the background. He played me songs on his guitar and gave me a copy of Tarantula. By dawn we were naked. It was almost perfect except for the fact that his house is darker than a Al-Qaeda hideout and the persistent presence of Bolivia’s finest.