Summertime and the living is sleazy

I’m a dedicated fan of the sun.

And let me qualify here: I mean the life-giving ball of fire millions of miles away, not the life-sucking ball of asswaffle tabloid we wish was millions of miles away.

In the summer months I’m prone to dress with maximum skin exposure – no matter what the occasion – to get as solar powered as possible.

One hot, sunny day I was driving to a friend’s house along the M25 in a strapless dress (cos, you know, TAN LINES).

This was the dress, just so you can visualise yours truly on her little road trip. I’m the one on the left with the fake pearl choker monstrosity.

disasters of a thirtysomething

Yes me and my skinnier mate Vee turned up in the same dress but – y’know – DIFFERENT RIBBONS, so it was all OK. No beef. All smiles.

Also, I say I was “driving” to my friend’s house. You should know two things:

  1. My methods are special
  2. It was London’s infamous M25 so it was less “driving” more “shuffling along in an awkward mix of 1st gear and 2nd gear and oh man no too slow for 2nd back to 1st again and I’m getting cramp in my foot”

The traffic had come to a complete and infuriating halt. Lucky for ME (please note sarcasm denoted by both caps lock and italics) my car had come to a stop next to a white van with three workmen squished in the front seat. Workmen who were squinting over at me in my driver’s seat with a mixture of amusement and amazement.

summertime and the living is sleazy copyright Nigel Jones

I think we’d all prefer a pic of a dog rather than a white van man here, so…you’re welcome

Now I’m no Cindy Crawford, no Giselle, no Britney circa the Slave 4 U video. I knew it wasn’t my incredible, breathtaking beauty they were staring at. I mean, they were smirking. And craning their necks to get a better look inside my car.

I looked around. Nothing. Just your average old lady Nissan Micra interior.

I pulled down the mirror and looked at my face. Ketchup? Novelty moustache? Nothing.

One of the builders grabbed a bit of cardboard (I don’t want to generalise here so it could just as easily have been a box from an Amazon delivery of the complete works of Tolstoy as the inside of a KFC carton) and started scribbling on it.

Then the colour rushed to my cheeks as the bit of cardboard was stuck up against their passenger window, right near my face.

R U NAKED?!!” it said in incredulous scrawl.

You haven’t known true shame until you’ve had to shuffle your body silently up in your seat until you can reveal the top of your dress, proving to the gawking blokes in the neighbouring lane that you’re not the Lady Godiva of Junction 19.

I was younger then; today I would probably have just nodded and winked.


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