gladrags

I do so love the word slut.  Its so terribly evocative.  And, of course, I am one.  Take this mornings prime example.  I got up this morning and rifled through my wardrobe to find some clothes.  Very little in there, as its all sitting in the dirty linen basket, just as it has been for the past 2 weeks.  So Im left with the end of my wardrobe, as this gets worn less and therefore has less chance to get covered in mayonnaise/chinese food/cat hair/random stains that seemingly come out of nowhere.  OK, I think, I can do this.  I do, of course, have to iron the shirt thats been sitting at the bottom of the pile of clean laundry gladrags 3 weeks.  It does take a little while to eradicate 3-week-old creases, but eventually I get it to a pretty reasonable-looking state.  I then have to try gladrags find a pair of tights.  Im out of black opaque (again, all in the laundry basket) but theres gladrags of flesh-coloured 7-denier.  Ooh, dont I look professional!  Well, all right, Im still in my trainers at the moment, but once I get to the office and put my heels on, then Ill look great.

So I get to office, feeling all smug at how unusually smart Im looking, and change my shoes.  It is only at this point that I notice the great big hole in my tights, right on the top of one foot.  Now, a non-slut would probably pop down to Tesco Express on the corner and buy a new pair.  Not me, however.  I come up with the inspired (if I do say so myself) plan of going to the loo and turning the tights round, so gladrags the hole is now on the bottom of the other foot.  Genius!  While gladrags so, however, I find about 3 other ladders in various places, which will no doubt disintegrate further as the day goes on.

I resign myself to being a slut forever.