The cardy that killed the party

I was always going to ruin the surprise party – I just wasn’t sure how. That was the surprise

At the end of the night, not even I could have predicted the way the event would be subtly ruined by my presence.

The apartment, in any case, was enormous, and utterly dripping in money. So many bedrooms that there wasn’t enough beds to put in them; photographs, art and sculptures on every surface bar the polished wood floor, which was covered with a carpet so posh that we weren’t allowed to sit on it, “less we creased it”.

“Nice place,” I told the mum, pausing for the shallow compliment to register before gesturing to the window to add “though the place across the road is nicer.” The apartment fronts the historic Pantheon monument mounting the famous, grandiose and filthy rich Latin Quarter.

I had arrived straight from the bar, which I went to straight from work. Dressed in a shirt and pants, I didn’t look too out of place in the well-to-do gathering of social climbers and fashion designers, save the fact that I was wearing quite possibly the ugliest shirt known to man, which I am loathe to throw away until I feel I have had my 25 pounds worth of wear from.

I was also wearing a new cardigan.

With the temperature in Paris getting much colder the last few weeks, I had been waiting impatiently to be able to buy this particular item, which is unlike any other cardigan I have before seen or bought. Unable to resist, I finally lashed out on the Australian credit card, eager to do my bit to spend my way out of recession.

This cardigan, described as ‘lawn’ in colour, had drawn mixed reactions at work.

“I’m jealous,” said my boss.

“You have a new jumper Sam,” said Arnaud cryptically – he once described something else I was wearing as “mysterious”.

“You look like Mr Rogers,” said Caite, which after I saw his youtube video, I took to mean “you look like a sad old kiddy-fiddler wearing a cardigan”.

Lynn meanwhile was much clearer: “Promise me you won’t ever wear that again.”

In any case, when I arrived, i immediately disrobed as it was too warm.

The party commenced, I drank red wine. The birthday boy arrived, I drank champagne. The food arrived, I drank vodka mistakenly believing I was pouring water. Eight samosas, three interesting conversations and a unnecessary second slice of cake later, and the end of the party arrived as well.

I fetched my cardigan and put it on. Ahh the warmth.

Ahh too the murmurs. Yes, in my quest to find something a little bit original and more than a little out of my budget, I had stumbled across the exact same ‘unique’ cardigan that these fashion toffs had handpicked to give as their centrepiece present to Thomas.

“Nice cardigan, I really like that,” said Camilla through gritted teeth. “Yes, it is nice,” said Thomas, which must have been words of relief to the others.

“Yep, it’s a nice one,” I said smugly, thinking, ‘and best of all, it hides this hideous shirt’.

The end of the story is that the cardigan didn’t fit Thomas.

She returned it the next day, asking for the medium.

“Oh I’m sorry,” said the Swedish manager. “I sold the last ‘M’ to an Australian just the other day.”

Swedish fashion in Paris

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2 Responses to “The cardy that killed the party”

  1. nordette Says:

    I require a picture of this Party-ruining-cardy stat please.

  2. kangaroo Says:

    the way the A$ is moving, by the time your credit card bill arrives, your cardigan will be couture (at least in terms of price, if nothing else)

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