G-String Blues

The morning had started very badly.

All that remained in my rather barren underwear drawer were bikini bottoms and  the kind of underwear which resemble lacy spider webs.

Considering the possibility of a sweaty derrière in the swimsuit fabric, I went with the spider webs. I chastised myself for neglecting to sort out my laundry – this very same issue had meant that I had been forced to don some shrunken jeans earlier that week (after a tumble drier mishap, they looked more like peddle-pushers).

Let me tell you, it is particularly hard to walk normally when you have scratchy lace wedged in unspeakable places. I’m sorry, but Victoria Secret’s models must be on DRUGS to smile that much whilst prancing around in such whispy contraptions. The lace spider was out of control. I attempted a subtle wriggle as I walked, in an attempt to re-position the fabric, but only succeeded in sloshing coffee down my top. Good.

Against all odds, I made it into work. Throwing my coat over my desk chair, I grabbed my laptop & walked into the morning meeting, already wishing I’d thought of an unusual illness which meant that I couldn’t come into work (contagious pustules? bit bubonic plague-y, but could work at a push…) There sat Jonathan – he turned to wink at me as I entered the room. I really had hoped he was gay. Typically, the only seat left was at the very front of the room, well within spitting distance  – my manager at the time had a terrible speech impediment, meaning that he did tend to spray the front row of any meeting room, (sort of like an involuntary sprinkler system).

The meeting droned on – I listened to the Director of my ‘team’ (we weren’t playing football, we were mindlessly typing into excel documents and answering endless emails). He was a shiny little man, with the infuriating conviction that his voice was best heard loudly and constantly. You know when you hate someone so much that you start to pick out their physical attributes and hate those too? Maybe just me… Anyway, I took comfort in watching him speak with a straight face, all the while making a scathing itinerary of his person, as follows:

Item 1: Chunky Orange/Brown Leather Shoes Let the record show that they looked like the sort of shoes an accordion player would wear, featuring a delightful swirling pattern on the toe

Item 2: Patronising Smile The trademark of all corporate a-holes, the ‘we really care about you at this company’ smile, AKA, dead behind the eyes with perfect pearly whites (from the whitening they can afford by not paying you enough)

Item 3: ‘Arty’ Reading Glasses The kind of glasses which only a 40-something man in the media/ arts industry would wear – these ones had extremely thick, blue frames- ‘all the better to see you with’…

Item 4: Floppy, Receding Hair Trying so hard to be Hugh Grant from the 90s, but your biological clock just isn’t having it,  hun (luckily the ‘bald overlord’ look would totally suit you)

It was whilst compiling this list in my mind, that I felt a cool breeze on my lower back. Reaching to pull down my top, my fingers brushed against something scratchy protruding from my trousers. Oh Christ on a bicycle, Mary Magdalen on a scooter and jingle all the way. I had been, for the last hour, flashing my underwear to my entire workplace – and when I say ‘underwear’, I mean thong, and when I say ‘thong’, I mean a full Christina Aguilera style g-string.

So, it came to pass that I had to endure creepy Jonathan singing ‘Dirty’ whenever I passed his desk, for the next few months, and the rest of my office probably just thought that I was a trampy call girl. Shiny boss man never did look at me quite the same, through his ridiculous glasses.

I feel that G-string gate has brought to light many important and contemporary issues for the modern working woman – namely: never, ever, ever prioritise watching The Great British Bake Off over doing your laundry.

With my condolences for any lace-induced trauma caused by this post,

B x

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