Pants and panties

July 31, 2011

Today is our wedding anniversary. Well, it would have been had we stayed married.

The Peacock wife and I might have stayed married if her pants drawer remained much as it was the first day we, ahem, did it.

Actually that’s not quite true.  It wasn’t just the pants, but I have to admit they were quite nice at the start, if a little frilly.  After a month or two, the frills disappeared (with no advance warning to me) and were replaced with – well, big. Big pants. Pants that practically reached her arm pits. I tried them on once (only to prove how big they were, of course) and stretched them all the way up to my nipples. That’s how big they were.

I hadn’t seen pants that big until fairly recently. Not that I get the opportunity to see pants, big or otherwise, that often, come to think of it. Anyway, last weekend I was stuck in a traffic jam on Putney Bridge. Hell on earth. There I was, in my G reg Audi (very cool until that man on Life on Mars started driving it, now I can’t get rid of it), bumper to bumper with the Range Rovers and other four-wheeled Chelsea tractors of the suburban middle classes, cursing the fact I had to go to Sandown (that’s another story), when it started to rain.

Not just any old rain, more like a tropical rain storm. Wind and rain. Horrid stuff. The problem with old cars is that they practically steam up with condensation the minute it beings to drizzle. A hurricane rather upset it (and me) somewhat. I gave up trying to get the windscreen wipers to go at double speed – it wasn’t as if we were going anywhere, after all – and I decided to watch the world go by instead.  People scurried past, umbrella-less, the wind whipping around them and practically blowing them off their feet.

My eye was caught by a red blur, just noticeable out of the corner of my right eye. I turned my head to see a woman clinging on grimly to an umbrella, which was at right angles to the rain and being towed along at speed by the wind. She seemed to in some distress, but a reflex or something must have kept her hand clamped to the umbrella.

She was wearing a summer dress, with dots on it, and I know that because it was somehow hitched up against her waist, and against the wind. She was wearing the most delightful little pants, and they have somehow burned themselves into my memory. In fact, unless things in that department improve soon, they may be the finest pants I’ve ever seen.

Let me describe them for you. They were, of course, lacey, around the – what would you call them? – leg-holes? They were blue. And they were like those abbreviated boxer shorts, of a style that I now know, after careful and extensive research, to be called ‘French knickers’. Such a marvellous name, so apt, so correct, so precise. Could they be from anywhere else? “Chinese knickers’? ‘German knickers’? Of course not. Now, I’m as Francophobe as the next (English)man,  but I yield to no one in my admiration of the skinny gay Parisians with waxed moustaches who develop women’s underwear for the rest of the world. Anyway, to return to the story…

Just as she shot past my rear bumper, an instinct told me to open the door and catch her. In fact, she crashed into the door, or at least the umbrella did, crushed against my window, and she stopped, turning towards me.

I can see her now, as she was  in that split-second. Long blonde hair, a round English rose sort of face, good figure tucked tightly into the red raincoat, probably in her mid-2os, face slightly flushed by the exertion…just what I like.

Then she spoke: ‘You stupid sod. You could have killed me. Bloody perve…’ and with that, threw the umbrella contemptuously at me and strode back into the hurricane.


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