The Zara Man

So last year, the magazine I write for (hereafter known as my mag!) had a turning-9 party that was meant to celebrate the successful nine years as well as to give our advertisers something fun and to enhance their impression of my mag. J and I thought we'd like to dress up a bit, so we arranged to go shopping together. Actually I always think I'd like to dress up a bit!

We had some work stuff to do in different directions but we'd meet up in the super big shopping belt of Orchard Road later. When the time to meet was close, J msged me every little bit to ask if where I was, and to ask if I would be reaching soon - an action most unlike her laid-back, VERY independent self. By the way, I was only 15 minutes late because the work stuff took longer than anticipated.

You see what I didn't know was that J had asked Agnes to help her carry some stuff, and he had offered to wait with her for me. Not really something J felt comfortable with, but she didn't want to fob off his efforts to be more sociable within our little group too - yes, ever the optimistic leader, our J - so she said yes, and they settled in a little cafe for some coffee and a little chat.

When I arrived, and Agnes headed off home having declined our polite invitation to join our shopping trip, J began recounting the conversation rather incoherently with bursts of laughter. Here's what I gathered finally after J had finally stopped laughing long enough to tell me stuff properly.

Agnes' idea of a little chat consists almost entirely of boasting about himself. Apparently he used to be a big spender who spent so much in Zara that he called himself the Zara Man. At the height of his spending madness, he actually went and bought a grand total of ONE Raoul shirt. But he has now seen the folly of his spendthrift ways, and now buys cheap shirts instead because after all, they all look exactly the same don't they?

And his top recommendation for cheap shirts that look good and last? Mustafa Centre.

*For those who think I'm making up this conversation, I swear on all the gods that govern inspiration of all kinds that I'm not.
**And for those who are particularly obtuse, Agnes has terrible taste in clothing. He wears plaid short-sleeved shirts in revolting colour combinations that are too tight and too short ALL the time, with the exception of one time where the sartorial gods decided to spare our eyes, and made him decide to wear a black polo shirt that actually fits properly.
***As an example of how short and tight those plaid shirts are, the buttons are always straining, and you can see gaps in the buttonholes. The gaps in-between buttons gape constantly, and once when he sat down and linked his hands behind his head, we saw his very hairy, very white, very flabby belly. EUWCH.