Knickers!

Myself and the missus are pottering around Westbourne Grove, a very trendy and quite well-heeled part of London right next door to Notting Hill.

With Christmas coming up I had been toying with the idea of buying her some underwear from Agent Provocateur and, as we are in the area, I take her to their shop.

On entering I actually think I’ve walked into a brothel with the staff wearing tight-fitting and short-skirted nurses uniforms and billboard adverts that could pass for soft-core porn on the walls.

The missus picks up several things that, to be fair, look low-rent hooker-wear. The prices, however, are anything but low.

Fortunately after examining the shops’ wares for 10 minutes the missus turns round and passes judgement.

‘I could never wear any of this.’

I am divided by this response. On one hand I’m thinking ‘Result’ as it’s stupidly costly and I’ve avoided ridiculous expense, but on the other I’m annoyed because I like the idea of buying her something stupidly pricey.

‘But why not?’ I ask.
‘Because I’ll look like a fat prostitute.’

This could be a trap. Stay quite or talk? I think. I pause. Then I speak…

‘But at least you’ll be my fat prostitute…’

She smiles. We leave the shop without buying anything. The punch could still come, though...