Went on a little field trip yesterday with my boss. We ambled around the Standard Bank art gallery (Amaaazing. Willem Boshoff's exhibition. I'm no art tart, but seriously – I walked out feeling so very ordinary in comprison to this man), and then strolled through the Christmas sculptures outside Anglo.
See, I bought a series of new underwear pieces last week. The favourite – an electric turquoise lace number – I put on that morning. And unwittingly walking around in them, jean pant chafing at my nethers – turned out to itch the fuck out of me in the gallery.
Not a little itch that could be ignored. No. It was like a ladle of itchy powder in my lingerie. New lace, not good.
There was a point where I was having to shove my hands into my pockets to refrain from having a jolly good scratch down there.
This, however, didn't work. The problem just snowballed into a frenzy. Something had to be done.
Whilst walking around, perusing sculptures, it became unbearable. So when I thought nobody was looking, I went behind a column, and had the most amazing scratch down there. I was desperate.
I scratched and scratched and scratched, and drew in a breath of absolute relief. Only to find a security camera aimed directly at me at close range. As I happily clawed away at my briefs.
Now, because I was in South Africa's arguably largest bank, I'm going to then assume that a security panel consisting of a 20-strong workforce of males was watching me having a very unladylike moment with myself.
I balked, then waved and smiled, so that they knew that I knew that they knew what I was doing.
My doondies are pretty. They're hot. Actually. But christ, walking around holding my poen isn't what I had in mind.
PS: I met Heddles last night, over some drinks and dinner. Been wanting to meet her forever, and really, what a fabulous young lady.