Clothes are so Uncomfortable

I’m sitting watching tv. The heroine is after being kidnapped. A bag shoved over her head and stuffed into the boot of a car by two large men. She struggles of course with little effect. What I want to know is with all that fuss how the hell do your trousers stay on!!!

I can’t walk from the car to the school without hitching up my pants at least once. I’m pretty sure if I was bucking like a bold child not wanting to get into the bath I would expose myself to all who cared to watch.

What’s more I wouldn’t have some fancy knickers on underneath. No no. If I were to be kidnapped I’d be wearing my oldest, grottiest thinnest pair of period stained excuse for a knickers. My arse would be a welcome distraction from the embarrassment of them.

Then they tied her to the chair and her hair was in her face naturally enough. They proceeded to torture her by showing someone beat up her sister. Well they wouldn’t even need to go that far with me. At this point those vile briefs are under my butt cheeks and I’m about to gnaw through the ropes with my bare teeth for that reason alone. My bra is driving me insane. I want to pull it down at the back and stuff my triple diddies back in at the front. Paired with the hair in my face I’m ready to tell them everything they want to know.

Then as if I thought the threat of them hurting my sister wouldn’t be bad enough (I mean who the hell would mind the kids while I line danced on a Monday. Went to see friends on a Wednesday. Got my hair done on a Friday…… I could go on.) I realise my runner sock had slipped under the heel of my foot. Heaven above is there no mercy!?

I imagine at this stage Beast Mam takes hold. This level of discomfort is more than I can take. I muster up strength reserved for mothers whose children are in grave danger. I break from the ropes. Fix the knickers, remove the hair from my face put my boobs back in my bra take off the socks and burn the bastards kill the bad guy and save the day!

Clothes grate on me. Nothing is comfortable. I could obviously lose some weight that might help me but problem solving is not my strong point. I often contemplate nudism if that’s a word but i don’t like to make other people feel inferior and let’s face it if this goddess was walking around nudey rudey that would be inevitable.

So I’ve slipped off the bra and I’m going to see if my heroine will save the world with or without exposing her arse in the process.

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My Sock Story

I went hunting today. Before anybody throws a tin of paint over me while I cue for the school to open, no, not that kind of hunt. I was on the prowl for socks. Those elusive creatures.  Originating in pairs but somehow they  always seem to find themselves alone.There are a number of theories, urban myths, if you like as to where all the odds socks go. Some say that the missing socks come back as extra tubberware lids. The washing machine eats them. Alien abduction. You know all really logical explanations.

I’m a compassionate person, empathetic even so I feel for the socks in my hotpress that no longer have their partner in life. August 14th I moved into my house and I know on that day that I brought only pairs of socks. Now in November I have many singular socks.  So today I went in search of every sock in my house in an attempt to restore order. It did not go well.

I had a system in place for my boys. I used to buy plain block colours for my Sun and anything with a pattern for my Moon. Then I had a thought what if my sock choices for my boys is influencing who they are going to be when they grow up. My pattern choice or lack thereof would be the foundations of my boys personalities. Sun growing up to be straight laced and responsible and Moon turning out to be wild an carefree. Yes I deduced all that from their socks. So I changed my strategy they now share socks. So it’s now only my bad genes that will feck them up and not my sock choices for them.

I emptied all the washing baskets. Looked behind beds and emptied bags that overnight clothes might have been placed in. I washed all the socks and I paired them all up. It was an incredible satisfying exercise which fills me with utter despair that these are now the things that I derive pleasure from. It’s not easy match up socks but I gave it my all. I’d like to thank those who supported me. You know who you are.

Some of the socks had seen better days so I put them out of their misery and replaced them with brand new ones. I picked up what I thought were five pairs of the same socks. Turns out they are five pairs of socks all with slight variations. Just enough to make me want to pluck out my eyelashes one by one rather than match them up. Will I ever learn? So I guess my sock story will continue.

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