Much more than anyone ever wanted to know about my tits
OK, we’ll get to that later (titillating!). This weekend featured the first properly nice day of the year, and our Aussie gang lovably lived up to stereotype by fixin’ a proper barbeque in their back garden. There was even “shrimp on the barby”, although I was vociferously assured that no Australian has ever actually said that in any legitimate barbeque-related context. The correct phrase is “prawns on the barby”. So if you’re going to make fun of Australians, get it right.
We spent the afternoon in a cloud of smoke as approximately eight tonnes of raw flesh were charred beyond recognition and summarily inhaled. It was great! Also there was beer, and even football on the television, which someone had lugged down two flights of stairs and out into the yard. (TV outdoors! Ah, the finer things in life!) The boys played cricket and the girls talked about plastic surgery, as is the way of nature, and everyone agreed that it was nice to be out of the pub for a change.
Then we all went to the pub. BUT, I was so knackered out by all the sunshine and wholesomeness that I went home early and was asleep by eleven. Heavens! Sunday morning I woke up at eight thirty – goodness! – and couldn’t get back to sleep on account of feeling all alert and healthy and un-hung-over. It was very strange. So I went and looked at a big boat.
Then I went shopping. I’d managed to get to a bank the day before, so I had a big wad of cash in my pocket just crying out to be spunked away on useless crap. And a new bra! For once in my life I found a bra that actually fits properly: my tits are all nicely supported and well-behaved for a change, not to mention perky as a cheerleader on ephedrine. Of course I had to accessorise my magical new boobs, so I got a low-cut sparkly top to show them off. It did the trick, and how – SiC was so enraptured that he began enthusiastically pointing out my breasts to all and sundry. Very magnanimous of him, I say. They’re becoming a local landmark.