The night before last (or was it the night before that?) there was a party in my sensibly comfortable, yet still definitely shapely pants, and everyone was invited.Well not exactly everyone.
I didn’t really want to unzip for yobbos or drongos or bogens or pissed idiots, and as much as I liked the feminine touch, I wasn’t that type of girl (no matter what happened on band camp), meaning that my pickings were pretty slim as I stood there amongst the ooohing and ahhhing masses by the banks of the Yarra. The fireworks were pretty enough, some of them even prettier than that as they rained droplets of fire onto muddied water, and perhaps it was due to all this extra illumination of my face – a face that was previously quite happy in the shadows – that turned away good prospects amongst the throng of two hundred thousand.
Next year I vow to wear a t-shirt that spells out my needs phonetically, combined with a not so classy belt for a skirt for those dyslexically inclined.
Ms unfabulously-untouched M.
