Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

my best friend not to mention steamrollered by my ex, I went a bit over the top on the retail therapy. It’s hard to believe, isn’t it, that shops didn’t use to open on Sundays. What on earth did people do all day? Even the religious ones must have been bored stiff – it’s not like church takes all day. Unless of course you go to one of those evangelical places where the services go on for hours and hours. I bought dresses and shoes and a cute little skirt suit (perfect for job interviews), a beautiful silver Paradise Orchid ring from Bower & Hall (well, no one else is going to spoil me now, are they?) and a bag full of pampering goodies from this fabulous Chinese place which sells things like ‘mood-freshening body scrubs’ made from bamboo and green tea. My mood was definitely in need of some freshening. Finally, I popped into Montezumas for a couple of bags of champagne and white chocolate truffles to eat on the sofa that evening. It was essential, I reasoned, if I was going to start hunting for jobs the next morning, to keep my spirits up.

7
     
    Cassie Cavanagh is feeling undesirable
    Bank balance: -£766.88
Available overdraft: £1,800
Amount of rent due in one week’s time: £800
    I was feeling undesirable not to the opposite sex (I had a date set up for that Thursday – exactly nine days AD – not bad going), but to potential employers. As Jude had warned, job hunting was proving a little trickier than I had anticipated. I leapt out of bed bright and early on Monday morning, eager to get started. I browsed JobSearch.co.uk , I looked at the Reed Recruitment site. I checked my emails. I had a promotional mail from NET-A-PORTER. They had Bottega Veneta bags on sale. I clicked on the link. Thirty per cent off! Bargain. I placed an order. Back to the job hunt. An ad for a PA/Events Coordinator. I dismissed it when I saw the pay they were offering. Pathetic.
    There was another post, a PA to the MD and FD of a property investment company, which offered a salary more commensurate with what I was used to. The advert demanded someone who had ‘superb organisational skills’, who was ‘very polished’ and ‘a true team player, not a queen bee type’. That summed me up perfectly. I filled in the application, attached my CV, dashed off a quick covering letter and sent it.
    Filled with a sense of achievement, I decided to nip down to Starbucks to grab a coffee and a croque monsieur. On the way back, I collected the post from our box and sorted through it over breakfast. I sifted through the mail, which was mostly junk (newsletters from the various charities to which Jude makes regular contributions), but at the bottom were two more interesting items. A stiff, cream envelope with the familiar Hamilton Churchill logo embossed on the back, and a credit card statement.
    Good news first. I opened the Hamilton Churchill letter. Very sorry to let you go, blah blah blah, please find enclosed your final salary cheque and redundancy payment in the amount of £3,000. Three thousand pounds!
    ‘Three thousand bloody pounds!’ I shrieked out loud. Thank God for that. That would last me ages! That would last me weeks and weeks! I didn’t have to worry, I didn’t have to feel guilty, I could buy as many Bottega Veneta bags as I bloody well wanted! And I certainly didn’t have to take the first crappy job that came along. I could take my time. I had breathingroom. Flooded with an over whelming sense of relief, I flung the mail onto the living room table and collapsed on the sofa.
    Just as a piece of toast will always fall butter side up, so the mail landed credit card bill on top. I glared at it. Could I ignore it? Just for a few days? Probably best not to. I should just rip it open and get the pain over with. I should do it now, now that I’m feeling better about things. Gingerly, I slipped my finger under the lip of the envelope and ripped. I pulled out the contents. It seemed alarmingly long. Four pages. Bloody hell. I looked at the total. My heart stopped.
    £5,322.87.
    Five thousand. Three hundred. And twenty-two pounds. Eighty-seven pence.
    Holy crap.
    My heart went from 0 to 120 bpm in a matter of seconds. That couldn’t be right. That just could not be right. Someone must have stolen my identity! That was the only possible explanation. Someone has been masquerading as me, using my card, spending £74 on underwear from Figleaves! Oh, OK, that was me. They’ve been buying shoes at Sub Couture! No, that was