The summer is just around the corner, although knowing the British weather it will be short spells of heat followed by days and days of wind/rain and/or hail, but it does mean digging out my flip flops from the dusty crevices at the bottom of my wardrobe and hoping they will be bearable comfortable to wear this year.
It also means dredging through my wardrobe for things that are not:
a) black
b) knitted
c) polo necked
There is something maddening about a British summer that makes people run out and buy tiny little vest tops two sizes too small and wear them over a black bra with three rolls of fat peaking out underneath. Women who should know better are suddenly and inexplicably drawn to denim hot pants and become convinced that its okay to buy a gold larmay handbag because it matches the shoes you bought in Mejorca three years ago.
And the men are worse.
There is nothing better for putting you off your icecream than to see a man in his late forties in sports (haha) sandals and cargo shorts with what can only be described as a bulging sack of hairy flesh hanging out in front. It is only the presence of a belly button that identifies this luggage as his stomach, and turns mine.
The bank holiday weekend proved to be a red rag to a bull for the worst offenders. A little sunshine and the population goes crazy. We were shopping in our local supermarket when a male offender walked past us, sandals and cargo shorts, thankfully wearing an open necked polo shirt. The shirt, however, stopped at his belly button which hung over another eight of ten inches of stomach swaying rythmically lower than I think his dick would have hung.
Worst part? His belly was tanned.
We can hope it was Saint Tropez but we know it wasn't, don't we?
