A PRIMARK THONG
I can see the light… it’s getting closer…. oh I’m fading fast…” Bob swiped his hand over his forehead dramatically feigning a swoon.
“Very funny, you wouldn’t be laughing if it had happened to you….” I slammed the kettle down, slopping water over the sides. “…it was a near death experience, a real proper one, I thought I was going to die. I was distraught!”
I gave him my best hurt feelings look, hoping to elicit at least some sympathy.
“It was your disgustingly shabby underwear that gave the paramedics the best laugh Mave…” he spat crumbs across the table as he waved his bacon batch at me. “…where they actually grey when you bought them?”
Blushing, I peered down the front of my shirt. He had a point, my bra had definitely seen better days. The underwire was poking through the middle and a runner on one strap had broken giving a rather quirky lopsided look to my nellies. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how my knickers had stayed in place as the elastic had started to perish on them weeks ago.
“Oh all hail Bob, the expert on women’s lingerie.” I snapped more from embarrassment than anger.
“Ah you may jest my little plum pudding.” He wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “Now take for example Primark knickers. They’re always at least one size smaller than it says on the label AND they shrink in the wash too. I have it on good authority…”
I quickly cut him off mid-sentence, dreading what was going to come next.
“Jeez you perv, what the hell do you get up to on your days off?”
Smirking, with one hand on his hip, he sashayed around the table before ending with an over-exaggerated pout and a subtle slut drop.
“You’d be amazed at what some of us wear under our combat pants on a night shift darling!”
I ran my fingers along the rail, watching the bright colours sway on the hangers.
I was braving the Lingerie Department in Primark. Knickers, G-strings, thongs and tiny shorts littered the floor where excitable teenagers had stretched lace and elastic for fit, admired, coveted and then discarded them before moving on to the Nightwear section for all-day pyjamas.
Holding a nice size 10-12 thong up to the light I could see I was going to have to bow down to Bob’s superior knowledge of women’s underwear.
It was absolutely miniscule.
I held it against me, pulling the elastic to its full extent as I caught a fleeting glimpse of my own rear end in a nearby mirror. It certainly wouldn’t take a genius to know it definitely wouldn’t fit my curvy butt. Well not without an awful lot of huffing and puffing and several indentations left on my thighs at the end of the night. There was also the distinct possibility that a pair of scissors would be needed to remove them at bedtime.
Size 14-16 wasn’t much better, in fact it looked pretty much the same as the 10-12’s. I furtively looked around before allowing my fingers to settle on a hanger which bore a label that screamed SIZE 18-20. Sneaking them down in front of me to check for fit, I began to realise with unfolding horror that these not so little beauties would be the only ones that could respectfully accommodate my very ample posterior, survive a bit of shrinkage in a 40-degree wash and not give me a deep vein thrombosis in one or both of my legs.
I surreptitiously stuffed several pairs into my basket and wondered off to join the checkout queue.
Absent-mindedly turning each pair over, I folded them so the size labels couldn’t be seen. I couldn’t believe I’d been reduced to buying knickers that resembled a deflated parachute. The only thing worse than the paramedics seeing my shabby faded grey undies would be for them to know I was wearing size 20’s to cover my hippo ass.
I inwardly cringed imagining them laughing over a mug of tea and a garibaldi biscuit.
The label on the top pair refused to be hidden, peeping out from behind the lace edging, mocking me…. and that’s when I had another one of my wonderful epiphanies.
I’d cut the labels off when I got home then even if I had another near death experience, no one would ever be any the wiser as to what size grundies I was currently clad in.
Mentally patting myself on the back for such a stonkingly good idea, I was in the process of allowing myself a smug moment, when my thoughts were suddenly broken by the dulcet tones of the Cashier.
“Next…. drag yer basket down ‘ere will yer.”
Now it was at this point I suddenly got a tremendous urge to explain to Miss Cashier No.3 why I had seven pairs of lacy black thongs in my basket and an even bigger urge to explain away their size.
As I shoved the basket onto the counter, and before I could even concoct a plausible explanation, I watched Miss Cashier No.3 pick up the first pair from the basket and check the label. Scratching at a rather large, make-up encrusted spot on her chin, she inspected her fingernail, stretched her arm out to its full extent and swung my black lace, size 18-20 thong around her head.
In a voice that was loud enough to wake the dead, she bellowed across the store.
“Code 2, Code 2 Maureen…how much fer polyester thongs size TWENTY….”
Every head in the queue seemed to swivel towards me. One or two ladies looked me up and down and tutted loudly, either in disgust that I was big enough to wear a size 20 or that I could actually wear something that looked like the gusset from a pair of tights with the legs cut off. The only guy in the queue who was proudly holding a T-shirt with the slogan Cool Dude emblazoned on the front, began to tremble and clack his false teeth whilst wiping sweat from his top lip with a crusty, creased handkerchief. I watched in utter embarrassment as his beady eyes went from the thong, which was still being ceremoniously waved in the air, to me, back to the thong and then back to me.
My eyes darted back and forth between the thong, the cashier and the queue, before I indignantly announced in my best plummy stage voice. “Actually they’re for my Nan, you can hang suet balls for the birds from them you know, it was in the Homes & Garden magazine, she’s got lots of trees for them to hang on!”
Miss Cashier No.3 was by now stuck in a mannequin pose, thong still pinched firmly between her fingers with a look of absolute disbelief on her orange tanned face. I knew I would have to expound as she definitely wasn’t going for it.
“Don’t you see, if they’re massive you can fit bigger balls in them….lots of balls, the more balls the merrier….” I waited for her to give a nod of understanding.
Nothing was forthcoming, just a slight twitch of one of her pencilled in eyebrows.
Oh shit, I couldn’t believe I’d just said that! What a pathetic excuse for wanting to purchase seven humongous pairs of black lace thongs. What was more, her loud announcement had revealed to all and sundry that they weren’t even pure lace, they were the awful sweaty-gusset-polyester type. As I rummaged in my purse, I had to quietly concede that for 50pence a pair there must be some trade off on quality somewhere along the line.
I grabbed my carrier bag and turned to leave, only to find Mr Cool Dude waiting for me. He licked his lips and made a final defiant clack of his false teeth as he leered out of the corner of his mouth,
“Tell yer what love, it’d be more than balls for the birds hanging off them if it were me.”
Recoiling in horror, I had a sudden mental image of a set of dentures hanging from the gusset of my newly acquired knickers. Hastily sidestepping Mr Cool Dude I burst through the doors and out into the street, my Primark bag slapping wildly against my left thigh as I ran to the car park.
Sitting in my car I had another little peek at my spoils. Huge they may be, but they were rather pretty and VPL’s in my combats would definitely be a thing of the past….
……but more importantly….
……I could have as many near-death experiences as I wanted now, if I had to almost die, I would at least be wearing a decent set of frillies!
Handcuffs, Truncheon & A Primark Thong (c) 2015