Barely there


Ah, summer summer summer, the time to reveal a bit more flesh. But how much is too much? I ask this after striding triumphant and coatless along Oxford Street, popping into several shops (will the search for pretty swimwear never end?), browsing the John Lewis food hall and finally returning to the office, only to find that my flies were completely undone. This in turn reminded me of an episode this morning that I had almost but not quite erased.

The pool I go to before work has a flight of individual but unisex cubicles that runs the length of a busy corridor. I selected one, post-shower, and got on with, y’know, getting on. Unfortunately, thanks to the attentions of the local schoolchildren, the locks are rickety. A sudden instinct caused me to glance round to find the door of my cubicle wide open. I have absolutely NO IDEA how long that had been the case, but the period between door slam and small noise of horror had comfortably accommodated the unpacking and repacking of a rucksack, the patting on of moisturiser (face and neck) and an awful lot of humming to myself – but absolutely no getting dressed. Not a stitch.

Sympathy for my fellow earthlings means that I habitually spurn the bikini, always ALWAYS favouring a one-piece. After today’s aggregated shenanigans, that modesty seems a bit misplaced. Sorry, London. Sorry.


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