Read Making It Up As I Go Along for Free Online

for nearly a year for
Irish Tatler
and I’d been sent a
lot of athlete’s foot ointment and acne-banishing face washes, but nothing at all from
Chanel. One morning I was working away when the doorbell rang and Himself dealt with it. Then I
heard him coming up the stairs and I assumed he’d taken delivery of a dandruff-banishing
shampoo or something equally unthrilling. But when he came into the room he looked ashen, and
when I enquired as to what was making him seem so shocked, he silently held up a small black
cardboard bag, with little rope handles. A small black cardboard bag, with the word CHANEL
written in white.
    ‘… no …’ I uttered
through bloodless lips.
    ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
    ‘Quick!’ I commanded, my lips rubbery
and disobedient. ‘Quick, show me!’
    Together we tore at the bag and out tumbled FOUR
CHANEL NAIL VARNISHES!!!!! Yes! The Summer 2015 Méditerranée Collection, and even now,
remembering the beauty of the colours makes me feel warm and happy! We shrieked with excitement
and jumped around the room and I shouted, ‘I EXIST!!!’ (I’m not exactly sure
what I meant, something to do with Chanel acknowledging that I was worthy of their nail
varnishes meant I felt endorsed as a human being.)
    Then! The bell rang again!
And Himself and I exchanged haunted looks.
    ‘Is it the Chanel man?’ I asked.
‘Back to take the nail varnishes off me?’
    ‘Feck,’ Himself uttered. ‘Maybe
they were meant for Liz-next-door?!’
    You see, in a bizarre coincidence, Liz-next-door
is also a beauty editor, and she’s a full-time real one, instead of an enthusiastic
amateur like me, and she gets LOTS of fabliss stuff and I know this because sometimes we take in
deliveries for her.
    ‘Don’t answer,’ I said.
    ‘I
won’t
answer,’ he
said.
    ‘I’m not giving them back,’ I
said. ‘I can’t.’
    ‘You’re
not
giving them
back,’ sez he. ‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law. We’ll just barricade
ourselves in here and refuse to surrender.’
    As it transpired, the varnishes really
wer
e intended for me, but the fact that I was willing to break the law is a sign of
how the Chanel-lust sends me insane.
    Over time, by all these different means,
I’ve built up a fairly sizeable collection but – this is where I might lose you
– I rarely wear them: they’re far too precious and I’m afraid of using them
up. I get my pleasure simply from looking at them.
    But I was embarrassed by my carry-on. Until
Himself suggested I turn my thinking on its head and regard them as precious
objets
(French word) and not as nail-pigmenting workhorses. It was a eureka moment and shortly
afterwards came the first mention of the word ‘museum’.
    The museum is housed in a handbag (not a Chanel
one – I’ve never owned one; like I said, I’ll never be that woman) which lives
in the bottom of my wardrobe, and I now have about fortyexhibits.
(Actually, I’m lying. The number is closer to sixty, but an addict always tries to
downplay the full extent of the problem.)
    In my more whimsical moments I suggest taking the
museum on the road and displaying it in parish halls around the country, so that everyone can
get to marvel at its beauty. Each varnish would stand alone on a tastefully lit column, bearing
a short description of its provenance. And of course, on my deathbed, I will bequeath the
collection to the Irish people. Or the V&A. I’m still deciding.
    When my friends bring their little girls over,
there’s always a great clamour to see the museum, so I take out The Handbag and delicately
unveil selected bottles and in a hushed voice say curatory-sounding things like,
‘Here’s a very rare blue, dated Summer 2013, which I think you’ll
appreciate.’ But their eager little hands start grabbing the exhibits and pulling them
from their boxes and then – then! – they sometimes have the audacity to
try them
on
!
    Before I know it bottles are upended and boxes
are being stood on and I start