A whiff of rebellion?

Following a deeply enlightening telephone conversation with my girlfriend, I am on a quest for a pair of chones that :

- will change her (and me) from her habitual Yfronts.
- Won’t ride up her arse.

Naturally, where to go but the emporium of tasteful lace that is Marks and Spencer. M&S, first port of call for granny knickers in packs of five matching shades. Poor people. They’re trying so, so hard to revamp their style and ditch the oversize diarrhoea-coloured cardigans and the puke-coloured nylon trousers. So they have those new hip and trendy designers do some stuff for them – I loved the vaguely punk theme on one of the dummies: white and lime green mesh, with a slogan that goes: ‘leave me alone’. I guess ‘fuck you’ was a little to much for the place.
If I leave England, I’ll miss Marks and Sparks.


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Tonight's achievement:

Locate swimsuit.
Locate towel.
Check unsightly features of self in front of mirror in said swimsuit, in harsh lighting.
Decide that if nothing is done soon, all this will get even worse.
Take deep breath, propel myself towards pool, go into building with head down.


Inspection tour:
Number of kids : nought. Perfect.
Number of goggled up backswimmers who think they’re so hot and just drown everybody else in their lane : tolerable.
Number of old ladies with armbands who hold everyone up in the slow lane: acceptable.

Pay my £2.70

(£2 bloody 70!)

Swim.
Float on back.
Swim some more.
Go home aching and happier.