Mom jeans and Hippety Hoppety Hoo.

General Nonsense

I have feck all to wear. I have stuff to wear at work and I have stuff to wear to bed and that’s it. I have nothing to wear that isn’t for those occasions. I might as well be in prison – at least I’d have a uniform and unbridled downtime. I sometimes childishly wish there was a uniform we had to wear, issued by the government or something. To hell with self expression – I’d gladly pull on a Government issue onesie or a space age tinfoil suit.

I spend my weekends dressed like a teenage boy (if a teenage boy wore comfort waistband leggings) in Converse and a tshirt. I’m fifty odd. It’s ridiculous. I make an effort for work but that gives me nowhere to go at the weekends as it’s against the law to wear work attire casually. And I stopped suiting jeans when my body shape kinda melted and reformed into the shape that only “mom jeans” will fit, thus:

I can’t wear “button through” anything on account of my massive tits.  I recently fancied myself in a denim frock so hunted one down on eBay. (Vintage, allegedly, which probably means they bought it in the Next sale in 2013). When it arrived it looked like it was made for a ten foot stilt walker so off it went to be taken up (and in, surprisingly enough).

I thought it’d be a refreshing piece of holiday attire – I could meander round Paris in a button through denim frock to the envy of all the Parisien fifty somethings. (The last time I darkened Paris’s doors it was at the height of the Crocs “trend” and I thought I was it and a bit, flapping through the streets of Paris with what looked like holey baguettes on my feet. I felt smug. I was baffled at the lack of Crocs on everyone else’s feet, given the level of comfort – not to mention style – I was enjoying. I mistook the looks of pity for admiring glances. It turns out France had done the Crocs “trend” if it ever was a trend, and I certainly wasn’t bringing sexy (or anything else for that matter) back to the Champs Élysées)

I buttoned myself firmly into the denim frock on a sweltering Paris Wednesday morning, slathered Coconut Body Butter on my razorburned legs and slithered out into the Paris sunshine. Fucking dress. I ended up doing a Judy Finnegan round the Musee d’Orsay with the top three buttons flapping open at every opportunity, displaying my big pink bra for all to see. Fortunately I had a sewing kit in my bag, built into the lid of a promotional hairbrush, (don’t ask) so sat in the bogs sewing myself in.
“Ah!” thought I, “now I can swan around Paris with impunity!”

Pride often comes before a fall, they say, and my thought came back to bite me on the bum a couple of hours later on the walk to L’Insitute du Monde Arabe to see the Hip Hop exhibition – the thought of which made me make this face:

But made Les make this face:

Ever the supportive and amenable travelling companion *cough* off we went in the 30 degree heat to learn about the history of Hippety Hoppity Hoo or some shit. Two metro rides later we arrived at Cardinal Lemoine and began the schlep to the final destination.

I enjoy ranting about abroad, which, I appreciate, could be misconstrued as a form of casual to moderate racism but the poor pedestrian is rarely considered when pavement works are being undertaken anywhere but Scotland, where, in my humble opinion, health and safety reign supreme. Or, if I was a cynical person, I could say supreme bordering on fascist. They’ve a much more laissez-faire approach to shit like that abroad, I find. It’s more of a passive aggressive “Well it’s your choice – you can either walk into the path of oncoming traffic, negotiating freshly dug holes and lumps of concrete or you can avail yourself of this handy pedestrian diversion we’ve arranged for you, which takes you 5 miles out of your way. We don’t care either way”, as they light up a Gauloise, because EVERYBODY smokes in France, even toddlers.

Half way down the street to the Arab Institute we encountered some confusing pavement works which just kinda cut off the pavement in front of us. There was a diversion of sorts in place, but by this time I was hallucinating Orangina and cold showers so decided to just climb over a stone wall to bypass the works. I overestimated my flexibility/height of the wall ratio and ended up, leg akimbo on a dyke, displaying my full toot to the man approaching. I don’t know why I’ve gone all coy and called it a toot, when I’ve been so gung-ho about saying vagina in previous blogs, but maybe I’m getting prissy in my old age.

I say I ‘displayed’ my full toot instead of ‘flashed’ because flashed makes it sound kind of saucy, which I can assure you it wasn’t. My pants had somehow sweatily worked their way up my bottom and were to all intents and purposes, cutting me in half. I couldn’t move back or forward so just stayed there for a while, leg akimbo, toot ahoy, shrugging gallically as if to say ‘Oui, c’est ma toot. Quelle surprise, non?’ I hope I’m the toast of France.

And finally,On the way back to the apartment, dying of thirst, I shoved my two euro in and this shit happened.

So near, and yet so far. I whimpered. I’m writing an angry email in my schoolgirl French to this lot:

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