oooh dear!

so this lady - let's call her betty - was at the top of the escalators beside the most exquisite dinner display you've ever seen. it was beautiful. at the top of the escalators, betty lost control of her bladder. it happens sometimes to the best and the worst of us.

if that wasn't bad enough, she picked up an intricately folded white napkin and wiped beneath her skirt. then. then, she placed it, dripping and discoloured back on the display table. she glided down the escalator as though she'd done nothing questionable.

dear desmond was distraught


size 6

so at the shoppe, there's a brand for the more significant figure called nicola waite. i suppose the brand name itself compensates for my blatant euphemism. net effect = 0. never mind. 

the sizing of this brand works rather strangely. a size 1 corresponds to a size 16; size 2 corresponds to a size 18 and so on. a size 6 corresponds to a whopping size 26.

a lady came into the shoppe and requested some assistance in finding an outfit for a wedding she was attending. not part of the bridal party. just a guest. i was curious. i asked her what her size was.

"i'm a size 6......... in nicola waite."



bloody impressions

my first day at the shoppe was a memorable one to say the least. a woman - let's call her florence, flo for short - in her late forties perhaps, came in, in search of some trousers. wanting so sincerely to make a good impression, i found all the trousers i could in her size and hung them spectrally on a rail for her. i think she was either pleased or disappointed with me as i couldn't tell the difference between her smile and her grimace.

flo tried on the first pair. pale beige, almost cream. with her back turned to me, she bent down to fold the legs of the trousers upward to adjust the length for a potential hem job. as she did so, seeping on to the the trousers between her legs was some blood. i was witness to the occurence.

'do you need a tampon?' i asked
'no i don't think so...'
'i do.'
'do i need to buy the trousers?'
'well...' ('you did bleed on them,' i thought - but not aloud)

and i can't really remember what happened after that. so much for good impressions. short-story-long, how awkward


the shoppe

for the three-year duration of my degree, i worked in ladies' fashion of a department store. i can't believe i stayed that long... but i suppose it was comfortable. all we had to do was stand around and look pretty, like beautiful little fools - a difficult task for someone whose attention span is comparable to that of a goldfish - me. we acknowledged people who wished not to be spoken to, and attempted to sell expensive clothes to people searching, but who really didn't like anything they saw.

don't get me wrong - i did enjoy the company of my colleagues... but there's only so much 'nothing' i could do before i started to feel guilty about the fact that i was being paid to do nothing. i drifted from minute to minute purposelessly, until one day i gathered up enough courage to leave.

good riddance