Wednesday, 19 January 2011

Yet another minor blunder.

“OI OI!” Yeah, cheers.
Dear Reader, may I begin by humbly suggesting the following as guidelines for general adoption:
  1. own more than one pair of jeans 
  2. have a pair of ‘sensible’ shoes by the front door at all times
  3. if your waxer begins to apply ‘after wax oil’ with a trowel, decline immediately and ask for after-sun lotion
  4. avoid any attempts to blot away surplus oil with tissue.
This morning, I’m walking the 60-second journey from my waxers’ to my parents’ house in a pair of red, 6in stilettos, and an oversized Barbour (“borrowed” from my mother on a permanent basis). 
The sun is shining, after a week of pissing it down. Glorious.
The waxer has applied so much ‘after wax’ oil, to help residue wax be removed in the shower, that I’ve decided against my jeans - I need to wear them to Top Drawer at Earls Court this afternoon, and I don’t need dark suspect patches to appear.
My jeans - incidentally - are stuffed under my arm inside my Barbour.
My newly waxed, oily-as-fuck, pasty legs are now being paraded through this overly middle-class suburb. That’s okay. 60 seconds.
But, as is within accordance of The Buggeration Factor, today is the day that all residents of Glanville Drive are having building work and/or their windows cleaned. 
So, I’m walking along, Barbour on, heels high. Hair-free legs reflecting every beam of sunlight to hit them. 
One pair of delightful fellows put down their cleaning accoutrements, and simply watch me walk past. A wolf-whistle from atop a nearby scaffolding structure. 
Tarmac. Swallow. Please.
On immediate consideration, it occurs to me that - unshowered and eyeliner-smudged as I am - that I am the first class ‘Walk of Shame” candidate.
Well then. I employ the only sensible resolution to this entire situation. 
Legs stretched, head up, back straight. Take your time, and don’t - for god’s sake - trip up.
Arriving home (a whole 30 mortifying seconds later) my mother opens the door and bursts out laughing at the sight of this grubby, bare-oily-legged and scruffy excuse for a 22 year old.
What neither of us has realised as I hop in the shower, to my eye-rolling exasperation, is I’ve had tissue paper stuck to the back of my legs the whole time. 

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