So Jamie and I have taken it upon ourselves to host a dinner party. This is not something we would normally be inclined to do, but we’re in extenuating circumstances.

One, there’s a birthday, and that causes people to do crazy things like have parties.

Two, every month we write a cheque for the equivalent of a years’ worth of Canadian college tuition and then we call it our rent. This allows us to be comfortably certain that we will be impoverished in our golden years, but it also affords us a fairly sexy house. And as everybody knows, you don’t get a nice house for yourself. You get a nice house to make your neighbours jealous.

Anyway, the party. We decided to have one. But we left most of our clothes in Canada and the clothes here are way better anyway, so we had to buy party clothes. We work from home and neither of us owns anything that could be accurately described as even business casual, let alone Christmas season party wear.

So we’re in Marks and Spencer and we’re buying shoes for Jamie. There are a lot of options because the English take their shoes pretty fucking seriously. (They can do that because they don’t have snow. Except, um, today. When it snowed. For what it’s worth, I want my money back.)

Anyway, I don’t know about men’s shoes and Jamie sort of knows but doesn’t care. Therefore, we have to trust what the tags are telling us and make our decisions based on that. Which leads us, after much ado, to our Monday marketing lecture. Read More

Question: What three words let you double your prices?

Answer: It doesn’t matter, as long as they’re adjectives.

Recently, some total genius — um, me — decided that it would be a good idea to go into London to do some Christmas shopping. (Note: Never do this.) We got to Euston Station and decided we’d try to grab something to eat before facing the throngs of vicious Londoners itching for a deal.

In Euston Station, there is a slightly nicer looking version of what we in North America would call a food court. Burger King, fish and chips, sandwiches, paninis, that sort of thing. (UK residents, can you please explain this country’s obsession with paninis? I mean, seriously. I like paninis as much as the next girl but this is over the top.)

We decide to get sandwiches. We both get pork. As we are starving, we pay no attention to the price because it will be too depressing to contemplate anyway.

As we’re eating, though, I realize I’m in full view of the menu for that particular establishment. I notice two things. One, the prices are exorbitant, but that’s hardly unusual in this country. Two is the alarming profusion of adjectives. Read More