In the pink


It’s funny how an apparently small, everyday, unrelated event can change your view of yourself.

Yesterday morning I went swimming before work. Nothing unusual there, but I was somewhat distracted leaving the house because of the previous night’s hi-jinks. I had been watching Doctor Foster on catch-up (brilliant! Watch it) when Housemate No.2 returned home. It was a stately event, in that it took absolutely ages. His first attempt on the front door was tentative, the second some three or four minutes later, when it was accompanied by several small crashes. He was legless, with a blob of what was either sick or kebab on his chin, and trying to wheel his bike through the door. By the time I intervened he’d knocked a mirror off its hook and was holding it up between his shoulder and the wall. ‘I’ll just pop it in the sitting room for the minute, shall I?’ I chirped, with travel-rep enthusiasm.

After a few tries he got his bike into his room, then went into the kitchen briefly and then bashed back into his room. I gave it 10 minutes until I was sure he’d lost consciousness before going into the kitchen to check all gas taps were off and the fridge properly shut. Good call: he had indeed been planning to prepare something, something that appeared to involve an enormous onion and a tub of gravy granules.

Housemate number 1 came down to fill her hot water bottle and we had a whispered giggly conflab in the kitchen before retiring. Lights out. Lights back on again at 1am when, dragged from deep slumber by the doorbell, Number 1 and I reconvened on the landing then went downstairs to let in Number 2’s girlfriend, also a bit drunk, who had been unable to rouse her spottled swain.

Anyway, there was no sound from the room yesterday morning, which was a concern because they both have early starts. Plus I did a quick vom check of the front garden and concluded that perhaps it was kebab after all. In short, I was more focused on them than ensuring my swimming bag was fully provisioned with undies.

Drattit! I am NOT going through a day without pants so I had to skitter out of the leisure centre with incomplete underpinnings and pop into TK Maxx post-swim, en route to the tube, where I purchased some gloriously fuchsia numbers that are easily the raciest pants I own. I hoped the girl on the checkout would twinkle roguishly in case it was a walk of shame but she just looked bored. Then I caught sight of my street-breeze-dried hair and saw her point.

Ok, so maybe hot pink knickers aren’t life-changing to everyone, but after years of black or flesh tone, to me this is like that bit in the Wizard of Oz when it goes to glorious Technicolor. Yay.


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