"Where are you going?" "Are you just back from holidays?" "Mommy why is that big lady carrying a suitcase?" These are just some of the queries that beset me when pulling clothes.
As a practical soul, I carry a trusty trolley dolley so as not to lead people to believe I am shopping my way out of the recession. Unwittingly, this tactic has raised its own set of scruples.
Only recently I stopped for a coffee break in Starbucks when the barista, bemused by my excess baggage, enquired as to why I always carry a suitcase. "I'm a stylist" didn't seem to wash. Each time I pop in for a skinny latte, she wants further explanation. I think she's convinced I'm harbouring refugees or that I'm some sort of prodigious cleptomaniac. "Maybe she thinks you're fabulously homeless?" offered a friend.
Then there was that guy in a namelss bar who exclaimed "You're the girl with the suitcase!" Since then, I've been fostering Howard Hughes-like paranoia, convinced the greater Grafton Street catchment has me pegged as an oddity. Ah, the glamourous world of styling...