Skewiff and sloppy

On Friday at the baggage carousel at Melgridleigh aerodrome I stood beside M A R C I A  H I N E S. (Warning clumsy sentence to follow...)Unfortunately I didn’t have my copy of her guide to life, the title of which is pure simplicity itself (Props to you Margaret Fulton and that lovely orange gingham patterned aerosol can of polyunsaturated oil spray), “Life”, for her to autograph.

Marcia looked pretty A-ma-zing and buff and naturally youthful not botoxed. She was s h  i n i n g. She looked kind of sportive and although no white frilly knickers were observed I BELIEVE she was in Mel to watch the tennis for she just had the air of a tennis spectator and she IS an avid tennis player these days.

I had a great time in Mel but am now coming down from the good times, delightful company, generous hospitality,  and oh, alright, a fair bit of tippling with Mr Booze; my nerves are a little shot and my mind somewhat rattled and guilty. I don’t think Marcia would tipple the liquor freaktastic with Mr B that much or EVER.

I’m still a bit scrambled today and could not work out what to wear (Love and thrusts to you, Trinny and Suzannah, you snooty, botoxed slappers). Consequently, I ended up coming to work in something somewhat inappropriate - one of my playtime sunfrocks with buttons down the front.

I caught a very packed bus this morning and had to stand the entire trip, occasionally bumping and annoying someone with my teeny tiny backpack, oh so pratique but still a trifle cumbersome. I apologised the first time and tried to stop bumping but it’s a bit impossible and I do believe that you cannot get in a snit about being bumped when you are the one seated and able to read a newspaper – oh yeah bel justice right-on.

As I stood pressed to poles and people, a woman prodded my torso and advised in stage whisper, “Your buttons are undone”. I was mildly concerned, looked down my front but couldn’t really notice any gaps, so I stage whispered back “Where? ”. To which she responded with a clicking of tongue and pointed below my chest and then on my belly. She was right and was duly thanked.

I am too addled to be mortified but next week I should be ready to write an article for the inner west courier about “My private pain” .