On Saturday morning, with something of a hangover due to going out with some very dubious company on Friday evening, I teetered up to Delhaize on my newly rehabilitated high heels pulling my shopping trolley, sporting my Vuarnet giant blackout glasses and looking a bit like Tina Turner after three pints of Special Brew, through my leafy suburb of Brussels (I won’t name it for fear of bringing on the Peter Mayle effect), the peace and quiet shattered only momentarily by the sound of my gin bottles crashing into the bottle bank.
I smiled indulgently at the single flag hanging out of a window in my street. A St George’s Cross, of course. I do not subscribe to this myth that all women detest football. I like a good body swerve as much as the next girl. However, there is a limit to my tolerance of the beautiful game, and I think I’ve got close to it. I switched on Radio 4 for some light relief. What caressed my shell-like ears? CRICKET! The dulcet tones of Henry Blofeld lulled me almost into a trance. He’s certainly mellowed since he was the villain in the James Bond films, hasn’t he? I wonder if he still has the cat.
I smiled indulgently at the single flag hanging out of a window in my street. A St George’s Cross, of course. I do not subscribe to this myth that all women detest football. I like a good body swerve as much as the next girl. However, there is a limit to my tolerance of the beautiful game, and I think I’ve got close to it. I switched on Radio 4 for some light relief. What caressed my shell-like ears? CRICKET! The dulcet tones of Henry Blofeld lulled me almost into a trance. He’s certainly mellowed since he was the villain in the James Bond films, hasn’t he? I wonder if he still has the cat.
2 comments:
you can walk in heels after a night out on the brew ? thank god for sunglasses.
A girl must always make an effort, whatever the circs. It might just be the day George Clooney runs out of milk.
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