To blog or not to blog

Quick health check: I’m still here! Boo! Shit, I almost made myself jump then! Started on new pill regime and hoping that they will agree with me, or at least not insist on having stand-up arguments in public places with my digestive tract. I have my fingers crossed, which makes typing quite an experience, but so far still feeling like someone’s been at my insides with an egg whisk! Wish me luck, say a prayer, send me positive vibes or just feel sorry for me – I’m not above a bit of well-placed pity.

Getting increasingly worried about Chinese-woman-over-the-road as there has been no sign of knickerage for quite a while now and I can’t believe anyone can drop from three-pairs per day, rinsed, if still slightly stained, to no pants at all for the last three weeks. It is possible I suppose that she is suffering in the ‘smalls’ department in the same way as I am suffering in the radish and beetroot patch (no euphemism intended) and she’s developed a serious infestation of slugs, but it’d take some goings on to not notice invertebrates in your pants! Can you get bikini-brief blight? Maybe when they have special fried lice they actually mean lice, not rice… Maybe she’s over-scrubbed and the lacy bits have dissolved? Vanish did excatly what it says on the tin. She had a Cilit Bang and her pants were gone in a Cif… I kind of miss the local colour of having her ‘knick-knacks’ hanging in her bedroom window. Even through the torrential rain they brightened up my day.

Oh Mrs Woo, what shall I do?
I’m getting kind of guilty ‘cos your knickers aren’t on view
This funny feeling
With your panties not revealing
Oh won’t you hang them out now, yes please do
I really miss your gusset
With its lovely shade of russet
And the elasticated girth (I know I shouldn’t fuss it)
Oh Mrs Woo, what shall I do?
I really miss your Chinese laundry views

Now Mrs Woo, I’ve got a naughty eye that flickers
When I spy your frilly knickers
Oh Mrs Woo, what shall I do?
I really miss your Chinese laundry views

I did have a thought yesterday that the humanitarian thing to do would be to pop down to M&S and get her a triple-pack that I could pop through her letter box under cover of darkness, you know, just in case she is financially strapped and is having to choose between undergarments and rice.

But then I realised the sheer horror that such an action would cause me and realised I’m just not that charitable. You see the world just isn’t set up for men to buy women clothes. It’s fine the other way round – ladies can buy men’s clothes without a hint of embarrassment or hindrance. It is just assumed that the pack of boxers is for hubby, boyfriend, male relative or slightly butch lesbian lover. But the minute a bloke tries to buy anything ‘feminine’ the eyebrows raise and there is guarded mutterings of transvestites with chicken filets down bras, inappropriate skirts and very bad makeup. It doesn’t have to be anything ‘naughty’ like pants either. I once bought my Mum a cardigan for Christmas to much consternation in Debenhams and barbed comments from the checkout ‘Christmas temp’ that, “Ya know thatsa woman’s top dontcha luv?” Er, yeah, and I even know that womens’ clothes button up on the other side, but that’s only because aforementioned mother once bought me a ‘shirt’ that buttoned up in completely the wrong way. How WRONG did that feel the first time I tried it on? Like wiping your arse with the other hand. (Ok, crude, but try it and you’ll see what I mean!) Less said about the blouse incident the better and I am too much of a gentleman to ever have pointed that out to Mum. (If my sister is reading this: Say anything to Mum, I’ll tell her who really broke my bedroom window when I was 6!). So, back at Debenhams, mohair cardy in hand and check-out troll fixed with a look designed to melt iron, I tried to embrace the spirit of the festive season and explained that the purchase was intended as a gift for a female relative. She was none too convinced and interrogated me further. I was naive, I didn’t stop to think about my reply when she asked, “Are you sure it’s the right size pet? What size is she?” Now women’s clothes sizes are a foreign language to me. I have no concept of the difference between a size 10 and a size 50. Could be anything. But the cardigan looked about right and I tried to reply with an authority on the matter that I confess I really didn’t feel. Now, considering that the troglodyte already had me pegged as a screaming tranny, my answer, as I implied earlier, could have been crafted more skilfully. But, to my horror, I heard myself reply, “She’s the same size as me, but with tits”! I might as well have asked her if she had a French maid’s costume I could try on too.

Department stores are minefields. They are not nice places to be. Maybe I am tainted with the memories of having been perambulated round such places as a young lad with a slightly younger sister. But age has not improved my opinion of these danger zones. I think it is a size thing. I make no secret of the fact that I’m not a tall guy. I’m decidedly un-lanky at five-foot and a bit (it changes depending on who’s holding the tape measure!). Department stores are inherently sizeist. Normally my height doesn’t bother me. It isn’t an issue. Unless some crass moron says something imbecilic like, “I bet you’d be pleased if platform shoes came back in fashion.” No, you knob, because then everyone else would be wearing them too and the relative height differences would remain unchanged. Did they not have ‘education’ where you grew up? And don’t suggest I should wear any other sort of high heel or you may find, to your disadvantage, that ‘stiletto’ is a type of knife as well as a style of footwear. Besides, I hope I have explained adequately already that I am in no way drawn towards a desire to cross-dress. So yes, I admit it, I was at the back of the queue when they were giving out height. But think about it logically: that means I was at the front of another queue and modesty forbids me to disclose which queue that was.

If, unlike me, you are of average height or taller, then you probably won’t have noticed this, so I challenge you, next time you are in any of the major high street department stores, check this out: They stack the shelves with the large sizes at the bottom and the small sizes at the top. This is more noticeable where they stack trousers or jeans, folded onto shelves. The bigger sizes are always on the lower shelf. On more than one occasion I have found that the jeans with a 28” leg are stacked so high that a person with a 28” leg couldn’t possibly reach them. At this point I guess I risk a restraining order from Debenhams, who’s bee would be very much in my bonnet if I were indeed a transvestite with an affinity for such headgear. For, it was in the very same branch of ‘Debs’ that I first noticed this farcical situation. There was no sales assistant anywhere near to help, as far as I could see, and why should I have to demean myself to ask for someone to reach me down something from the top shelf? Incidentally, I have never been able to buy dirty magazines for the same reason – I’ve had a tough life! Regular readers of my blogs will know I have several issues around buying clothes and hopefully you can appreciate some of my exasperation. My only option was to jump as high as I could, grab wildly at the pile of ‘short’ trousers and pull several pairs off the shelf at once. At which juncture (and points to anyone who gets this quote…) “as if by magic, the shopkeeper appeared”. I shall provide an edited version of the conversation to illustrate how I feel it should have gone.

Shopkeeper:
Can I be of assistance Sir? It seems we have rather inconsiderately stacked those items on an inappropriate shelf.

Me:
I’m indebted for your concern and for the fact that you have noticed the error of this situation. Could you perhaps help me understand why a nationwide store of such repute should make a mistake of this magnitude?

Shopkeeper:
The placement of items is governed by a design proposed by our marketing department. I will, of course, write to head office forthwith and demand the immediate resignation of the head of marketing.

Me:
And can I therefore be assured that this situation will be rectified across all branches in your network?

Shopkeeper:
Most certainly Sir, I shall in fact action the change as a matter of highest priority upon completion of my most helpful and enlightening conversation with yourself, to whom I wish once again to express my deepest regret and humblest apologies.

Oh, and another reason for disliking department stores of this ilk (and for balance I shall cite House of Fraser as the main culprit here) is that they insist on surrounding the entrance/exit routes with make-up and perfume. You can’t walk into one of the blessed places without gipping at the dreadful mix of toilet water, channel dredging No. 5 and Jean-Paul-French-Git (poor [sic]  homme). If I wanted to smell like a French tart I’d go to a patisserie!

So my reluctance to venture forth on a knicker-purchasing mercy mission is, I feel, fully justified. Maybe I could get Tescos to deliver? But therein would lie a theological dilemma: is it wrong to purchase party packs of petite and pretty panties from anyone other than the patron saint of pantaloons, St Michael?

But hold that thought. Something else has just occurred to me that might explain the apparent disappearance of Chinese-woman-over-the-road. Maybe she’s pregnant and gone wherever it is Chinese women go to spawn. They must go somewhere. I mean, I don’t think I have ever seen a pregnant Chinese person. Have you?

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