Fancy

This is about to come across as arrogant. Thank goodness, this is a kind of a diary so that’s allowed.
In the absence of my raising the energy to leave the house before the supermarkets closed, we opted for a Chinese food takeaway and a stop in to a grocers for bread and milk. I found the will to wash, and went out with wet hair wearing an old, loose elasticated skirt elegantly ensembled with a purple vest top and red shoes. I was the ‘before’ picture in a reality TV makeover. Even Gok Wan would suck his teeth and turn to a career in war reporting (but if you’re reading this Gok, please get in touch, love your programme).

At the grocers, I took our purchases up to the man on the checkout. The desk is raised up and I fidgeted with my purse and pondered over accepting a carrier bag. As I did this, I was conscious that the man was leaning down towards me. We exchanged the cash and said the mutual thank yous. He stuttered.

Nick was giggling as we left. ‘He was looking down your top’, my darling husband chortled. ‘No,’ I said, ‘he was just looking down at something.’ But I was persuaded that Nick was correct, there was nothing else to look down at, and he had leaned all the way across the counter, the stammer had been embarrassed. I became anxious that I had too much on show, but I have checked, ant this top shows only the merest dimple of breast, whilst elegantly showing off my bingo wings. I’m really not an attractive specimen, even if I make the effort.

It takes all sorts, as Nick seems to know. He’s the one to point these incidents out to me. I’ve never been able to recognise sexual attraction (well, I do in Nick’s case, but that’s different), and I’ve never understood how to flirt. I was once accused by a B&Q customer of flirting. I wasn’t intending to though, I was just indulging in some amusing banter to brighten up a dull day. I’m not sure that it’s possible to flirt in the context of a broken pipe cutter. Oh, now I see that it may be.