Queue and eh?

No status update from me right now. Suffice to say, Healers Inc. should sack their alleged 'greatest' employee, Time, because s/he doesn't appear to be doing much. If anything, s/he is making things worse. I'd have hoped that Time could at least do me the courtesy of speeding up through the bad bits, but no, of course, the seconds shuffle by with enough time to read the complete works of Barbara Cartland in the gaps.

It was with delight, then, that I managed not just a smile but a full-blown laugh yesterday - albeit restrained due to my situation. Laura and I were queuing in Marks and Spencer. In my hand were a nicoise salad for Michelle, a sports bra and two bags of mixed nuts. My heart was still recovering from my frantic sweep along the aisles full of dithering calorie-counting office monkeys; Laura had hurtled towards me seconds earlier saying that she had considered lying face down on the floor in front of the Count On Us display and beating her fists into the linoleum while sobbing 'Stop pushing in front of me'. Tensions were running high.

Suddenly, while I was in the middle of saying something gripping and concise, Laura nudged me and nodded towards the gentleman standing in front of us in the queue. He was around 5'10" and, from the back, I could see his neat haircut and slightly balding pate. He was wearing a fairly standard blue and white checked shirt. I couldn't see what was of interest. I scanned down. Beneath the blue and white checked shirt were a surprising pair of skinny, bootcut flares in black stretch velvet. These finished, ill-advisedly, at ankle height and my eye was drawn further down to a pair of slightly hairy, pale feet sitting comfortably in a pair of brown leather, high-heeled strappy sandals. The look was completed by a set of ten beautifully pedicured toes, painted in a colour that could have been Chanel's Rouge Noir, favoured by, among others, Victoria Beckham.

The contrast between the look above the waist and below was striking and I'll admit that I had never seen anything like it before. It was as though our fellow queue-member was growing into a transvestite gradually from the ground up: perhaps in a few months the transition will reach neck height and he'll be able to squeeze into a dress. I would say, however, that although I fully support his fashion bravado, the velvet bootlegs should have been a few inches longer, but then I suppose they would have covered the cork-soled shoes. Perhaps in future he'd be better off going for a nice cropped pant. If I see him again I'll tell him. I love London.