Flashing nipples

November 17, 2012

I have been down South for so long, that the family back home call me a southern softie. I don’t often head up north. Since my mother passed away (bless her, she could never understand why I wanted to live in west London with a motorway running behind my flat), there is little reason to go back home other than for funerals, weddings and the like. So when I headed back up the M1 last weekend, it was with some trepidation. As I drove (in the left hand lane, obviously, none of that sitting in the middle lane I’ll have you know), I tried to get back a bit of the Northern  boy I’d left behind. After having an imaginary conversation with the Peacock wife for at least 20 minutes, I managed to get a bit of the old Derbyshire lilt back and, by the time I got to the outskirts of South Normantan you’d never have thought I made my living at some arty-farty ad agency in namby-pansy London.  I had almost managed to convince myself that I worked down some mine  (well, okay, no mines in South Normanton nowadays, but you get my drift).

The good thing about weddings up North is the amount of beer you are expected to consume. Within 30 minutes of arriving, I’d managed to drown two pints of the local ale (and that was before the actual ceremony). By the time the groom had kissed the bride and all the ceremonial stuff was over, I was pretty hammered. So much so, that when, on the dance floor, one of the bridesmaids gyrated, her nipples flashing white, blue and red, I didn’t think anything of it. In fact, I thought it rather patriotic and somewhat fitting following the success of London 2012. It was only much later, when I lay between the starched sheets of the hotel single bed, pondering on the events of the day, that I realised that flashing nipples were not really normal. Well, not in West London. I wondered whether she had little light bulbs under her dress, or whether she’d stuck them over the taffeta,  and how she managed to get them to flash in time to Thriller. 

You’d never see flashing nipples in boring Brentford.  I might have to go back home again. May be.


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