All our planning and conniving came to naught and we never got to Dublin to buy the new Levi Curve ID jeans.
The main reason we didn't go was that Josie did some investigations and found out how much the jeans actually cost (about €130) and we quickly realised that we only had enough money to buy one pair between us. As this could have caused a cat fight of epic proportions, we decided to go to the Sunday market in Naas Racecourse instead and seek out a few bargains.
"I never thought I'd be doing this," said Maggie, as she rummaged through a suitcase of clothes that had seen better days. I admired her stoicism in the face of adversity. This was the same woman who, during the Celtic Tiger, carried around so much money in her handbag that Seanie Fitzpatrick should have had her as a contact on his mobile for when the money ran out in Anglo. Now, there is an ASBO on her credit card and she is reduced to car boot sales.
She gave up on the suitcase and moved to the next stall, which consisted mainly of tracksuits in shades of pink. A skinny young fella with join-the-dots acne sidled up to us. One of his front teeth was missing and his trousers were at half mast because he felt a need to expose us to his designer underwear.
"Are yiz alreet, ladies?" he enquired.
"Have you any Curve IDs?" Maggie asked.
She might as well have been speaking Chinese.
"Wha?" he replied.
"Jeans," I said to him. "She wants to know have you any jeans?"
He directed us to a mountain of denim at the back.
"How much are they?" asked Maggie.
"Tree euro," replied your man. He reminded me of one of the Toll Trolls.
The three euro price tag take sent Maggie's eyes out on sticks as she contemplated how many pairs she could get for a tenner. She selected a pair of bootcuts and politely asked where the dressing room was.
"You're standing innit," your man replied.
"Pardon?" said Maggie.
"Oh for God's sake Maggie, this isn't bleedin' BTs," shouted Josie. "You pay your money and take your chances. And before you ask -- no, he doesn't have a returns policy!"
Maggie eventually copped on that not only was there no dressing room but she was also not going to get a receipt -- so she turned into a hard ass and haggled your man down to four pairs for €10.
When she got them home she tried them on. They felt a bit damp and the back pockets looked like they had been sewn on by a myopic midget but at least they covered her backside.
Well, most of it anyway . . .