While people of the Roaring Twenties could be the Big Cheese or the Bee's Knees, we of the past decade are confined to being Tanorexics, Celebutards or Recessionistas (we should thank every lucky star in the solar system that the Singleton decade has long passed us by).
Having been defined by friends, family and co-workers as a textbook example of an Irish Recessionista, I really should know what one is. However, the common view of a recessionista usually involves profligate spending repacked in a much more palatable way. Women still spend a hundred euro in one go on tops, but now instead of buying one, they buy twenty at a fiver a pop and congratulate themselves for being such expert bargainers by getting an expensive blow dry at the hottest salon. I don't even own a hairbrush.
The real recessionistas are elusive creatures. They don't hang out in packs discussing the newest shipments of designers lookalikes in Penneys. Nor do they haunt the €12.50 Meal Deal aisle in Marks and Sparks, rifling through piles of over-fondled sauteed potatoes in search of the last elusive roast duck main course.
In an ideal world the Recessionista isn't a type of person but rather a state of mind. The recessionista isn't you but the person who sits on your shoulder and calculates just how much tinned Scotch Broth you will have to eat and for how long in order to buy a new pair of shoes. It's the voice in your head that reminds you which bills are due and when, which bars have the best cut-price cocktails and table quiz prizes and which of your friends is the same dress size as you. It knows that new things are always worth trying and that deals are there to be taken advantage of. In truth, every woman regardless of her hairdo is a recessionista - the recession has shown us that. No blowdry required.
