It took her a couple of manoeuvres, with the gearbox screeching like something possessed, but she eventually made it, although she parked way too close to the car next to hers. I'm glad it wasn't mine because she nearly took all the paint work with her when she opened the driver's door.
First, one leg out and then the other followed by a little wriggle of her bum as she straightened herself, before slinging a furry handbag, the colour and size of a Labrador dog, over her shoulder.
"Mudder of Jaysus," said Patsy. "What the hell is she wearing now?"
Her top half was okay, but as the eye made its way down her legs, things quickly started to deteriorate.
It wasn't even the skinny jeans, although they were bad enough, bunched around her knees like an accordion before resting above -- there is no two ways to say this -- her gelatinous ankles.
No, we could live with all that. It was the bondages on her feet that really took the biscuit. "White stilettos!" Patsy practically screamed at her.
"Nobody wears white stilettos any more. And what's that off-white stuff on the toes?"
"Tippex," replied Maggie. "They were a bit scruffy, so I gave them a bit of touch up."
They were a bit scruffy because the last time they saw the light of day was about 1979.
From the look of the clumps of tippex, I'd say it dated from the same era as well.
Her feet might have been slim and sexy back in the Seventies but now they overflowed like souffles.
They must have been killing her, but she kept up a good face.
"You lot just can't keep up can you? Stilettoes are back," she sneered as she rocked back and forth on the aforementioned shoes (they needed to be heeled as well).
"Says who?" I had to ask. Says Kim Kardashian, apparently.
Kim Kardashian is one of those celebs who are famous for being famous.
A little known fact about her is that her great grandparents were members of a religious sect known as Armenian Molokan Jumpers which, you must admit, makes them sound far more interesting than she is.
As far as I can tell, she seems to be known for little else except being married to someone, whose name escapes me, for about six weeks before divorcing him.
Yet, her influence is so pervasive that she has managed to persuade our friend that white stilettos look good on a dank day in November. In Ireland.
Is it just me?