281008 Menage a Quoi?

Place: Thin-people’s shop, Brighton and Chelsea
Time: That horrible non-time of shopping malls
Costume: Not rubber-clad trews, more likely rubber-souled shoes


So I decided that if I couldn’t wear her shoes I could at least try and squash into her trousers. The ex’s new bird. Well, apparently it’s been three years now……….

She is naturally thin, I am a dinosaur in disguise. I bump into her in the local (not mine, obviously, I ain’t local), and she’s wearing these beautiful shiny, sexy, powerful things, and I decide it must be the winning formula. I psychotically, sorry, politely, ask her where she may have purchased such a magnificent item (or is it items?), and she innocently tells me. Haha! I have your secret now you naïve sexy bitch!

But, like the old glass slipper years back, one woman’s secret is another woman’s cut-off toe. Or nose. Or whatever (NO, not that!!)

So I go to the shop in question.

So far the Chelsea and Brighton branches have not been able to service me. One woman, sensing my twisted desperation, offered me the trews off the model when they are finished with. I declined, sensing karma was about to come and bite me on the not-rubber clad bottom.

So I continued my quest, willing to accept my just dessert – if I looked fab then maybe I could win the man of her dreams, (not of my sordid fantasies). If I looked hideous then it would be a just reminder of my inferiority. And of my stalking skills. ‘Leave the poor girl alone’, my guru says.

‘Don’t compare yourself to her’, do I hear you exclaim?! ‘It’s great to have shape!’

Hmmmmmmmmmmmm. The end of this sorry tale is that I spent an hour after work on the demented DLR going to the wharf. Yes. The wharf. My friend does PR for the shopping centre, so I figured that would give me an element of power over the hideous, doctor who-inspired metropolis.

Nope. Dragging myself through mazes of burger-munching androids I desperately searched for the shop, which I swore was hiding, in question. There it was. And there were the trousers. In my size (took the size bigger for moral support).

F-ing hideous. Imagine an old-fashioned scuba-diver with kickboxers legs, wet and rubber clad, then a pair of tits on top. Not nice, not nice at all.

Humoured, my quest was complete. I must say, all that marching must have made my legs a bit skinnier?

Well, I am allowed to indulge in some bunny-boiling moments. One has to be reminded one should occasionally act like a straight female, not always a cackling gay gigolo.

Off to google all my ex-shags’s girlies. Ciaou!