Just a quick one tonight as I'm sitting in St. Pancras International, waiting for the Eurostar to speed me to gay Paris, but I wanted to have a quick pre-France rant about my wondrous new Moroccan carpet bag, thrilling in design and quite probably disgustingly over-priced, beautifully kitsch, covered in peacocks. Note to creator of such bags: you should mention on the label that this bag may look all well and good in the shop or on one's bedroom floor, but when carried along over one's shoulders with the handily-provided shoulder straps, the friction created by the rubbing of one's hips against the carpet fabric causes one's DRESS TO RIDE UP AS ONE IS WALKING ALONG, COMPLETELY unbeknownst to you, meaning that COMPLETE STRANGERS HAIL YOU as you are talking to your father on your mobile phone and say "Hey! HEY!" and then point at their ass, and you don't know what the hell they are going on about and you smile politely and keep on walking and they shout, "HEY!" again, even louder this time, and you think you must be on fire or perhaps you dropped your passport or are about to walk into a lion's den, but then you realise that the reality is in fact far worse and your dress has ridden up over your buttocks so all pretty much anyone walking behind you can see is your arse, thankfully covered in opaque black tights, but still.
The label should say that. It should be a legal requirement.
Right. Platform 10. I'm off.
We've ALL BEEN THERE.
ReplyDeleteI am doing laughing.