Spanks. The final taboo?

I paid my first ever visit to a laundrette recently.

(No. I am not that lazy. I was staying with a friend who had put their washing machine into storage as he was moving down to Cape Town.)

So. Laundrette. I piled my clothes into a bag, lumped them through one of those whiplash inducing doors with a violent swing akin to a Venus Flytrap and gulped uncomfortably as I paid what seemed an awful lot for Macro-own-brand washing powder - not saying anything as only a true English person does. I was sifting through my clean laundry a few days later and noticed that something was missing. I wasn't even sure if I could prove it, either, as it was one of those places that neglects to write down what you handed in. (Apparently I went to a lucky dip dry cleaners.) What was worse, however, was that even if they had been clever enough to make a note of what I'd handed in, I'm not sure I could have gone back to ask after the missing item. What was it?

My spanks.

To the unassuming eye they are almost offensive ~ oyster coloured industrial sized underwear that promises to strap in even the most stubborn bulges ~ that you hoik right up to your bra. Bridget Jones knickers. Or possibly a small parachute if the occasion called for it.

I bought them as I was wearing an eye-wateringly tight dress for our big advertising awards, The Loeries, last October and I was too lazy to lay off the Sauvingnon Blanc and sneaky cheese scoffing. When I went to the till at Woolworths the cashier called her friend over so they could loudly mock my revolting choice in underwear and I shuffled, red faced, out of the door after giving up trying to explain it was for a special occasion (cue more cackling) and that I didn't usually wear a tent underneath my jeans. They're vile. But they're MAGIC. After hopping up and down with as much grace and dignity as I could muster (this was not a lot, sadly) I whipped my dress on and voila. The realisation of being able to wolf down food and drink as normal (I get depressed when I have to turn down canapes) gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling in my faux-flat stomach. Hooking up in said magic pants is not really an option, as you either have to brave hook up's face of horror as he lays eyes on your giant, flesh coloured panties or make a speedy dash to the bathroom first and take them off entirely, instantly morphing you into one of those people that goes out without wearing underwear. Like Britney. Truly, I only wear them if I'm wearing a skinny fit dress (this is rare: I tend to loaf around wearing leggings and oversized tops so I can continue to gobble food in the fashion that I'm accustomed) but I've formed a grudging admiration for them. I've even decided that they're actually vampy in an 80's Madonna meets Mad Men sort of way. *scrapes barrel*

But.

I still don't advertise that I'm wearing spanks. Why would you? It would be like marching through the streets brandishing a banner, so you could broadcast to the world that those creamy, caramel-y streaks in your hair were in fact done by Alessandro, last Thursday at 3, or that the delicious Mulberry tote you're parading to the envy of everyone else was actually acquired from a shady night market in Phuket next to knock off dvds. I'm not advocating lying for God's sake, just to be allowed to project a little white lie. Women should be entitled to a smidgen of mystery. So, tragically, my not-so-inner English has forbidden me from going back to the dry cleaners to ask after them. I say it's because it's too late, I don't have a slip to prove it, pre-Christmas rush means it's bound to be bursting with spanks blah blah blah - but I know it's because I'm too mortified to expose my little flesh-coloured lie to an unimpressed cashier with raised eyebrows and laughing eyes.

Festive Fuckery - Travelling 'hiccups'.

I learned two new things about me this holiday.

i) I am neither cool, calm nor collected in a 'situation'. In fact, I am a FLAPPER.

ii) My alcohol limit when air bound is significantly lower than normal. Stopping at, say, two bottles of rapidly necked wine is, in future, necessary in order to never again render my fellow passengers mute with horror as I snort-bark-squealed with laughter at children's films, swooned loudly at Javier Bardem and finally passed out in a drunken and no doubt snoring lump. Four bottles is greedy. Not festive.

These discoveries were borne out of England's inability to deal with snow. And we're talking inches here, not feet. Our green and pleasant was transformed into an icy tundra from as early as the end of November last year (hullo, Al Gore?) and subsequently morphed into a third world country. Buses ground to a halt, trains stopped running, the tube flopped over in pathetic defeat and more often then not people just stayed indoors. Typically British, we grumbled and sniped and moaned but similarly 'got on with it'. I, meanwhile, was basking in the sun over in the hot hemisphere, deliciously unaffected by the whole shambles aside from offering the occasional 'chin up' to friends and family who were losing small body parts to frost bite. I was due to fly back home for Christmas on the 20th of December. Plenty of time for the snow to melt, I thought. Bah humbug, said the weather.

So the 20th of December rolled around and I walked into work to be greeted by an ugly no-fly message on SAA's website.

BUT IT'S CHRISTMAS, I wailed. (Cancelling flights is not what Jesus would do.) The next flight I could get on was Christmas Eve. Well bollocks to that. The only reason I managed to get through the next few hours was a continuous flow of caffeine swiftly followed by large glasses of wine. Sneaking onto the website around lunchtime it appeared that they were flying as normal, after all. Hurrah, I cheered. (Or it could have been more of a woozy whoop as I crashed forwards into my desk by that point.) I immediately cheered up and began planning what order I was going to eat my Christmas food in, day dreaming about mulling any alcohol I could lay my hands on and how frequently I could eat cheese for 'pudding'. Happy days. By 4 o'clock the website said they were off again, the robotic lady voice on the phone said they were on and I was getting indigestion with the confusion of it all. I drove anxiously to the airport, dragging my ancient, 'at least no-one will steal it' bag behind me to be told that yes, my flight was cancelled. Sorry. They would know by 2pm the following day if they would fly or not and, in the meantime, it was best really to hang around until then. I looked at the air stewardess and for a split second imagined yanking her over coiffed 'do sharply downwards so her lipsticked mouth smashed into the desk.

And then I cried.

Crying, friends, is magical. It makes people UNCOMFORTABLE. And when people are UNCOMFORTABLE they tend to go out of their way to do anything and everything to make you stop crying. Her eye twitched and she swallowed nervously, brushing imaginary wrinkles off her blazer. Bingo.

So I totally got on a flight. The ONLY flight leaving the country for England. God bless that glorious, overly made-up air stewardess. I want to say I'm not proud but I sort of am. I didn't bump anyone else off, just took a seat that someone, in all the confusion, didn't pitch up for. I did hit a small child in the face with my handbag as I sprinted, red faced and panting, through the airport though. Did feel a smidge guilty about that and his subsequent wail but I was not missing that plane.

This is the part where I ignore the need for a refreshing glass of water and instead thirstily guzzle copious bottles of wine. I became quite loud. I chatted animatedly to my neighbour. I snorted with glee at the in-flight entertainment.

AND THEN I GOT GROPED.

God was clearly watching when I walloped that small child. Apparently my seemingly shy and retiring neighbour, a spotty and rather smelly Afrikaans youth on his first trip to the UK, thought that, though I was drunkenly snoring, my body was screaming STROKE ME. Dozily emerging from my wine induced coma to be greeted by a moist-palmed paw clutching at my arm was immensely sobering. However, I am English, which meant I was absolutely incapable of leaning over and telling him where to shove it. Instead I mock woke up in an overly exaggerated way, complete with disorientated/I just had a horrible nightmare noise. (I may have been a little drunk still.) He looked at me earnestly like a small puppy and I wondered how him and my arm could have formed such an intense relationship in such a short space of time, before giving him a wobbly smile (you know, the kind you reserve for drunk homeless men who lurch towards you on the tube shouting about the aliens in their head) and dragging my rug between us to form some kind of barrier. Needless to say the rest of my flight was pretty nightmarish as my premature hangover bashed me over the head and I simultaneously strained away from Gropey, tattooing the arm rest into my left hand side and cricking my neck.

Oh (ho ho) but it doesn't stop there. After landing, running away from Gropey, collecting my bag
and enjoying a wonderfully cliche-ridden Christmas holiday full of log fires, scrabble battles, crumbly stilton, snowy dog walks, endless bottles of Merlot and tangerine smelling fingers I made my way back to the station to get to the airport. What's that? The train's been cancelled last minute because of overhead line problems and I'll need to take a round-the-houses replacement train before connecting somewhere else only to be picked up by a train that will similarly be delayed meaning I have to leg it (a - gain) through London, followed by a bag that will surrender it's rickety wheels to a snowy pavement, meaning I arrive at the boarding gate nine minutes after closing and subsequently miss my flight home?

Oh fuck this.





*** Here's to a 2011 of smooth travelling and, if not, guardian angels in the form of garishly made up air stewardesses that melt when you cry and move mountains to get you on planes ***