Saturday, 10 September 2011

Boob Talk ®

There was a lot of boob talk today, which doesn’t seem right to me, not at my age (looks 32).
First I ventured to the final day (it’s the way I like to see art) of Miro at the Tate Modern – beautiful pastries and very reasonably priced café au lait. It was glorious, and I am so glad I went to see it. Spain, as some of you know is my spiritual home, and a key plank of my retirement manifesto is to run a bordello in Andalucía with Penny Cruz and Pedro (Almodovar – I know you knew). But the art was amazing and spoke so clearly of the Spanish struggle against Franco and was gorgeous.
But there were a lot of boobs.
Peasant boobs mostly, and with the swish of the surrealist's brush, some took quite a lot of guess work to see, but luckily the saccharine spiel of the curator told you were to look at the 3 lines, and to know which one represented the peasant oppression and which one represented the boobs.
Talking of boobs - I know some people should be allowed to have children, where absolutely necessary, but do they really need to bring them to galleries, on my day off. What’s wrong with Cbeebies and a nanny? (Is Wendy Craig still working?)
I then traversed à pied to London’s Covent Garden via the RFH shop, Hungerford, Villiers and Bow. Here to have the webbing on my piece adjusted. Now my barber Andy loves boobs. There is a wonderful old school pin ups calendar like the sort you would see furtively peering from behind packs of peanuts in the olden days, presumably tempting the beer drinkers to eat ever more salty KP, and thus drink ever more flat warm beer.
Often, at the barbers, as one is waiting in line, you are eye to nipple with a busty wench. She must be cold, I always think, although all parts do appear quite pneumatic and that thong could be lined.
So I get to the chair, and there staring me in the face, apart from the salt and pepper God like George Clooneyness which is I, is a sticker on the mirror which reads ‘I (heart) BOOBS’.  Now I know he likes boobs; the finer parts of the female form have come up in discussion once or twice over the last 22 years. In fact he did ask me if I was on the turn today, but now I mention it, I can’t quite recall why. But rest assured I’m not – sorry ladies.
So from Bedfordbury, we (I) go to Long Acre, where we pick up a gorgeous tailored chemise blu (oh how we are loving being slim), have a good old search through the Nigel Hall sale shop and a post-riot natter with the shop boys and then hot foot it to M&S for a few edible treats for the coming week and a pint of organic skimmed. Whilst there, I thought I’d just pop upstairs (put your fingers in your ears Adrian) and have a look at the clothes. Well I know, but through a sea of nothing you do from time to time see a single glisten of something, and I can scan the store in 30 secs and know whether there’s anything requiring a second look. Now I did see a shirt which I thought I would at least try on, soft to touch and pleasant to eye. So after asking the sales lady where the fitting rooms were, I knew, but I like them to earn their money, which took forever as she was excruciatingly slow and it took her about 3 minutes to get her brain into gear and muster all she had to simply produce ‘over there’. Serves me right for asking, but moving on.
On arrival at the fitting facility there was no waiting. The lady had me straight into a cubicle with an offer of additional sizes if required. I did end up asking actually, but she didn’t have a small. Where was I? oh yes boobs, so what I hadn’t realised, although perhaps I should have done, what with the piles of discarded lingerie draping the counter and rail, was that I was in a unisex changing facility (You wouldn’t get this in first class I can tell you).
I hadn’t been in there for more than 10 seconds. All I’d had time to do was put down my groceries and realise the shirt was too big for my lean physique and the mirror was too small for my statuesque stature. When in a booming voice, loud enough to blow the froth of a coffee at an adjacent table, I hear ‘ Well I just can’t get a bra to fit me since I started breast feeding – they’re just so big’ followed by the a second voice ‘well this one doesn’t fit, look they’re squeezing out of the side’.
So as you can see there has been rather a lot of boob talk today. But that is certainly enough. I’m off to the National later to see something enriching by Arnold Wesker – I hope there aren’t any bedroom or nursing scenes.
In other news, even though I am very much looking forward to having thighs like tree trunks, these Jane Fonda esque wii fitness instructor hell sessions (with weights) are very strenuous. I think the main place I am going wrong is not having a head band!
Toodle Pip!

1 comment:

Michael Patrick McKinley said...

Boobs, tatas, buds, knockers chachas, headlights , or jugs. You just couldn't seem to escape them today, could you? I'm glad to hear you couldn't be turned, as I'd rather have play for my team.

Well anyway, take heart in knowing that they feed the world.

And yes, babysitters are always preferred.