My man prefers stockings. And I prefer my man when he prefers me. So I prefer stockings. Call me old fashioned.
Today is Tuesday and I am currently limping across Ealing
Common with one stocking threatening to fall down. The ‘hold-up’ part is not
I try to look as untrolloplike as possible whilst hoiking up
the offending hosiery by partly concealing myself from the commuter traffic
behind a sycamore tree. Some dogs run past me. Oh yes, and the fair is in town.
On the common. Next to me. So now I look like a gypsy trollop with hosiery
trouble first thing in the morning behind a tree on the common. Super classy.
No one cares. No one is papping me from their Skoda and posting
my wardrobe malfunction on facebook. Not even the bored looking suit clucking
at his dogs takes notice. My ego finds this a slight sting - I like suits to
notice. I’m just being honest. Nonetheless, the rest of me is grateful to be in
the midst of this great city where no-one notices and no-one cares, so I hoik
away and jog to the tube, grabbing Time Out to read after I have brazenly
applied my makeup in front of the other Piccadilly line commuters. Did I mention
that I kind of enjoy an audience?