Wednesday, January 26, 2005

Don't Panic 

There’s been a bit of a cock up on the laundry front, so today I’m wearing my last resort underpants.

Back in the early nineties they were twangy and rather exciting - much like myself, of course - but these days they are faded and saggy, and their grip on reality is slipping. They’re the Dad’s Army of underwear, hopelessly not up to the job - the pants equivalent of Corporal Jones with a pitch fork shouting “Don’t Panic!”

Walking round the office today has involved performing little skip-and-hoists when nobody was looking, but the elastic is all shot, and as Radiohead will tell you, gravity always wins.
By this afternoon I’d given up the fight to keep my heritage pants up, and let them droop around my lower arse area, only the gusset of my trousers saving them from falling to my ankles and tripping me up.

I don’t think anybody noticed, although I did receive a rather cryptic email from Diana, Head of Marketing, saying she was going to start cycling into work. She wondered if I knew any place where she could park her bike.

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