I'm ready for my Ambulance Man, Mr De Mille
Now Playing: Justin Fucking Timberlake
I should be arriving in Cambridge right now, but I forgot to set an alarm of any of the four kinds I usually use, then decided today was a good day to straighten my hair (wrong: combined with the nail-scissors induced hair cut, it merely looks like it's been combed, for once; however, I'm pleased to report that within one month I shall cease to be blonde and rejoin the ranks of ginger), to sort out the three human height piles of clean washing (so long since I did this that there's still washing of Wickedex's in there, and she stopped doing any housework here back in June), and then pose a lot in my new underwear. I had an underwear buying splurge on Friday (one that was entirely, totally unrelated to the depressing visit to the adjacent mortgage advisor, who'd gently informed me that the ex-council flats in Bermondsey which I'd thought I'd been brought down to are slightly out of my reach, financially), and true to my own typecasting, bought lots of knickers with jewellery in the bumcracks. I know, I know, there are more dignified ways of describing them, but jewellery up the bumcrack was the selling point for me.
Matching sets, of course - bizarrely, since I haven't slept with anyone since January - well, actually, I have, but I haven't rogered anyone since January, so that time I woke up in bed with Martin and Looby, although definitely a knicker flashing occasion (sports set, white), doesn't count. First matching jewel encrusted bumcrack set of undies were worn on Friday, to the work Christmas party in (gasp) Charlton. Black and silver glitter, with black diamante bumcrack, and comfy-pillows bra (extra pillows down the bra very much required after recent crappy relationship-withdrawal weight loss - I have ribs where bazookas should be). Real danger of public flashing, owing to the ridiculous prozzer mini - so short I didn't have to hitch it up to pee. In fact, the evening was testament to the fact that if everyone else is pissed, you don't actually need to be pissed yourself to act stupid, as at one point, having staggered back to someone's house, I realised I was sat peeing (on the bog, I've never yet repeated the Funky Buddha pee-expo), having neither pulled my skirt up, or the jewel-bumcrack string knickers down. But honestly, there was so little material, I doubt much piss got on the knickers.
Yesterday, I wore the red silk fifties bikini effort - no bumcrack jewels, as these were sporty Betty Page looking efforts, but there were some rocks nestled in the arid expanse of no cleavage. Which kept itching. Prompting some embarrassing scratching at Asda. But hell, I spent my Saturday night doing CNPS and going to look at the Dome by moonlight, who cares what itching nonsense nestles in my sweaty cracks unless I end up on a mortician's slab during such a lone-gunman-type recce? Which, when my car began to break down in the Blackwall Tunnel (again), wasn't such a far-off possibility.
Today is pale pink jewel-encrusted rock solid undies. If you poke the top of the apparently humongous boobs, they deflate (always makes me giggle, Bloke Opposite, who was thankfully out during last night's knicker dancing episode, must think I'm some sort of pervert - squeezing my bits, then pissing myself laughing). When I get to Cambridge, my sis is going to think I've had breast implants. Unless she sees them with a seat belt deflating the whole effort. Snigger.
Two Jaffa cakes left, then I'm outta here. Toe-socks, jewelled bumcrack, pink deflated knockers and all.
Hieronymo's gone mad againe.
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This page graced by sarsparilla
at 12:49 PM GMT
Updated: Monday, 8 December 2003 6:36 PM GMT
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Updated: Monday, 8 December 2003 6:36 PM GMT
Post Comment | View Comments (27) | Permalink | Share This Post
