Accidental Nudism

The last couple of weeks have seemed to slip right past me. It's very nearly June, and the weather is glorious! I haven't taken my flip flops off and my bikini has nearly lost all its colour already. NAAAT.

Bloody Nora it's grim here in our little corner of the British Isles. 25 mile per hour winds and intermittent showers is not what I want when I have just left my job in a warm, clean office to go on a smelly boat to gut fish seven days a week.

In other news I publicly revealed myself last week. No it was not some feminist protest, it was not a moment of impulsive exhibitionism, it was not even a mating call. It was, in fact, a regretful accident.

It all began with a rather optimistic morning, following a possibly misleading number on my weighing scales (I say it was misleading because I hadn't eaten anything yet and had had a poo not long before).

I smiled and cooed with glee at the numbers between my toes and decided that I was one hot mama, skinnier than an Olsen twin with food poisoning. I strutted to my bedroom (ignoring the slight jiggle in my tushy) and flung my wardrobe doors open with reckless, joyous abandon. I didn't have to pause for a second to consider the glorious item I was to pluck from it, but I pretended to my invisible audience that it was just another morning, no different to any other.

My beautiful, navy, size six, high waisted pencil skirt smiled at me on its hanger and I hastily grabbed some underwear before sucking in and zipping up. It was tight, I'll admit that, but come on! It's size six. For a girl with a reasonable bra size, a six is never really going to allow for silly things like breathing.

I gazed adoringly at my reflection, the tightness of it was even holding me in a little more. I slipped on my heels, waddled down my stairs with restricted movement and climbed into my car. I headed off for my visit to Tenby Museum for a PR meeting. I managed to find a free parking space in town (winning), got my bag together and stepped out of the car.

I felt it first when my second leg was coming out of the car, I felt it again a second time when I walked away from the car. I suppose I fully acknowledged that rippling, tearing sound a little too late. By too late I mean that the back of my skirt had ripped from midway down my calf to above my tummy, also taking the waistband in its trail of devastation, before falling onto the concrete below.

I was stood in the middle of Tenby in a shirt and my greying cotton pants.

I looked down at my skirt on the road, gathered around my shoes and blowing slightly in the wind. Fear swirled around me like a hot syrupy blanket. I grabbed the material from the floor and ran with it back to my car (only a few paces, but what seemed like a mile) and fumbled desperately in my bag for my keys, opened the car and threw myself in, shutting the door behind me.

I swore with shock at the steering wheel, and then laughed hysterically before realising that I was already late for my meeting and driving home to get changed.

I'm sure someone must have seen me, but thankfully I sped away fast enough to hear any guffaws. So there you go, a sneak preview into the life of a glamorous Public Relations officer.

It's bank holiday! Hooray! I have £5 in my bank and don't get paid until next week! Poooo!
A quiet weekend of pumicing my feet and doing my hand washing it is.

That's all for now, 

Jojo 

xxx