17 February 2007

Clip This On Your Chest Wig

Accountant, now powered by iPod, no longer spends his weekend wandering around the house trying to locate his latest edition of ‘Taxation’. He side step shuffles whilst rhythmlessly nodding and miming like a middle aged dad at a wedding instead.

The iPod has knocked his wind up torch off the Number One gizmo spot and wherever he goes, his little iBuddy can always be found clipped onto him somewhere. His solitary chest hair finally has a use following his evening shower. However, it is making communication problematic as I try and make myself heard above the Telegraph Podcast. On the plus side, bickering is down by 75%.

Accountant granting me permission to buy clothes also contributed to that statistic. Armed with my flexible friend, I ventured unsupervised into town. Denim seemed a sensible fabric to start with but, in Skinny Jeans format, it was only ever going to end in tears. The clue was in the title. As I hopped up and down in the changing room, fearing I was going to have to ask the young male assistant to run and get some scissors to cut me out of my predicament, I decided it was well worth one more desperate tug in the hope I may be able to break free and regain my dignity and the feeling in my thighs.

Finally loose, I celebrated the renewed blood flow to my legs by leaving the shop tingling from the waist down and empty handed. If the alternative to Skinny Jeans was going to be Fatty Jeans, I decided I would go home, via the sweetie shop, and sulk. This all served to remind me that shopping, post 10lb baby, was no longer the endorphin packed experience it once was. Maltesers would have to fill the void.

I returned home to an Accountant who strongly approved of my bagless entrance.

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