knickers to you: two

I receive a text from Phildar:

'I forgot to put on my knickers today. And it's quite nice.'

I pause briefly to wonder whether she actually meant to send this text to me, how on earth she has managed to forget to put on something which goes on first, and then consider my response:

'Slattern!'

When I see her later at dancing I enquire about the state of her underwear. I am relieved to learn that should she have an unfortunate incident involving public transport, then her family will not be shamed. And then, sort of by accident*, I mention the knicker incident to Dancing Boy; just as they are about to dance together. He is inordinately flustered, and actually blushes. He might have even fluffed his first-move-hatchback-comb-crab-combination**, which is unknown.

The next day I get another text from her:

'My elastic has gone and I have had to tie a knot in my knickers. It's true.'

It is at this point that I remember the first time I went to the pub with her. I am beginning to sense a theme. I reply:

'I left my phone at home today but am enjoying the underwear soap opera'

Today's episode, sadly, is unpublishable.

*I was unable to resist, what can I say?
** I made that move up.

she hands out the bhagavad gita

'Have you ever been to the boat?'
'No, what's it like?'
'Well, it's very hot, and really really crowded..'
'Oh?'
'..but there's loads of CAKE'
'Ooooh....'

knickers to you, too

Sitting in the pub after dancing, the conversation turns to underwear. Beetle's girlfriend admits to having between 30 and 50 bras. I am impressed, and keep my count to myself.

Phildar recounts a tale that she read in the paper, about a girl who was dumped after a first date because when she got undressed her pants were not deemed suitably alluring. I am wondering silently which newspaper she reads, when the guy to her left interjects ‘Too right!’

Several of the women in the group look at him incredulously, though the youngest of us agrees with him. (Germaine Greer: weep now.) None of the more mature of us says what we are thinking, which from the sideways looks around the table translates roughly as ‘You twat’. I also resolve there and then that I shall never date anyone ever again, ever.

Phildar asks for a straw poll of who is wearing big pants. All of us put our hands up. This is not entirely scientific, as the wearing of big knickers to Ceroc is advisable just in case someone decides to do one of those turn-you-upside-down moves.

Someone then tells the men that they should show us their underwear. We go around the table and one by one they hoick bits of elasticated jersey from beneath their waistbands. Three grey, one black and one green. It’s not the sort of thing one expects on a sober night out. I may have to go to the pub more often.

I see you baby...

I push my way out of the hall onto the balcony, and lean against the rail in the semi-darkness in an attempt to catch some air to cool me down. I'm far too hot, and not in a good way. I knew when I left the house that the white trousers were a mistake, but my bloody-mindedness made me wear them: I am sick of the skirts and heels which summer demands.

I smile and say hi to one of the regular dancers. Last time I saw him we had the first real conversation we've ever had, and the poor sod put his foot in it by asking if one of the younger girls who also dances regularly was my daughter. He was mortified; despite the fact that it's actually an entirely reasonable assumption that I might have an 18 year old daughter. (Dammit.)

His mouth is running away with him again. It does this when he speaks to me, for some bizarre reason. He says things on the noisy dance floor which I mostly hear only partly, and then apologises for whatever it is that he has said. It would seem that over 50% of his conversation is insult for which he must apologise. The weird thing is I don't think he really means to be rude: otherwise why would he talk to me?

Tonight we are standing next to one another. He is waffling like a drowning man whose last chance to talk himself onto a raft has just arrived, and I am still getting only about one phrase in three. This may be because he is 6ft3 and I am 5ft4. The atmosphere may be thinner up there, affecting the passage of sound. I am pondering this possibility when suddenly I hear 'Someone like you, who is Rubenesque'.

Rubenesque? I know I'm not a skinny girl, but...Rubenesque? I decide that probably (hopefully) he doesn't really know what he's just said. He has meant to compliment me. I think.

Obviously my face registers shock, and although I am biting back the urge to scream 'I'm not Rubenesque you fucker: I'm a size 12!'*I attempt to project a picture of serene calm. He on the other hand is projecting babbling wreck. I grin at him, and advise him to stop digging. He tells me that he has left his JCB outside. I smile again.

As he walks away I resolve silently never to wear the sodding trousers again.

*[a blatant lie. I'm a 14.]