This morning, I am meeting a friend for coffee.
It’s a man.
A man I quite like, as it happens. But we don’t discuss that.
I spend ages trying to find a top that I feel comfortable in, but doesn’t show too much cleavage; I don’t want him to think I’m trying to flash him.
The problem is that since I’ve put on weight my chest has grown somewhat, and most of my clothes are either V-neck or scoop-necked, and now they all show my cleavage. And I don’t have any sensible vest tops to wear underneath. I am painfully aware that since I am shorter than most people, just because a top looks reasonable in the mirror, it could well be obscene from an average height. I think I’ve done well with my choice though. It’s a pretty dress I had actually bought for a proper date, later in the week (with someone who is looking for all that malarkey, unlike this one). It’s not too low cut, and I think it looks quite nice. I mean to ask him for his opinion on it for a daytime first date with a stranger, but I forget.
As part of a long-standing joke, I have bought my friend a bottle of cherry Lambrini. He has never tasted it. I feel this is a terrible state of affairs. He arrives, and I hand him a bag containing the Lambrini and some socks I had bought at Christmas and forgotten to give to him. (they are chuffing good socks)
We walk into town to get coffee, but he has to go to the post office first, so we trudge to the tiny post office at the end of the High Street. In order to sort through his parcels, he hands me the bag with the cherry Lambrini, so that he doesn’t drop it. I then remember that I have letters to post, and as he gets to the counter, begin to rummage through my handbag to find them… I forget the carrier bag is also hanging off my arm… and it drops to the floor with one of those sickening noises that can mean only one thing.
The bottle has smashed; there is sickly, fizzy pink liquid spreading quickly across the floor. Practically every member of staff in the post office rushes to help with rolls of kitchen roll and rags. We mop it all up and rescue the slightly soggy socks from the bag, but not before I’ve managed to cut my hand on a piece of broken glass. Turns out Lambrini bottles smash like an absolute bastard; I am glad this did not happen in my kitchen!
The post office staff are all lovely; we clean the mess up, pop to Boots for some plasters, and then have the coffee and chat we had originally planned on having.
And then, just as we are leaving, he quietly points out to me that while I was grubbing about on the floor mopping up spilled alcopop, most of the post office queue could see straight down my top. Massive wardrobe fail.
At least I am wearing a good bra today. Every cloud…