Thursday, February 18, 2010
queen of farts
So in between not remembering what it’s like to sleep, and not remembering how it last felt not being strung out, I went after a work event yesterday for my third bridesmaid dress fitting.
The lady is very sweet, and rather religious judging from the crucifixes dotted about her doiley home, although the shuffling kind of reminds me of my old school housemistress.
Except about 1000% less draconian than her.
Either way, she’s sweet, pedantic and relatively harmless, chatters on. Each dressfitting takes a couple of hours, hectic, but our dresses are looking beautiful, and each design has come out well. We all pretty much designed our own dresses with the help of Ant, who’s been amazing in that the colours are awesome and she’s given us some freedom with our dresses.
And this lady has done a great job.
And yet, she did it again.
She bloody farted.
Seriously. The first time, because we change and pin in this rather hot room, there was suddenly this horrifically tangible and highly odiferous baff odour about us. Like a freight train. No noise, just pure lethal smell.
She carries on clucking away, while sticking pins on our straps and shuffling along, when it hits you like a frigging meat cleaver.
And it lingers. While she carries on like nothing happened. You almost wonder who did it, because she acts like nothing’s wrong, but it can only be her.
The second time – last night – I asked the other bridesmaid, ‘Dude. Is…..she farting? Seriously.’ The other bridesmaid duly confirmed, while holding her nose.
It’s insane. It’s actually freaking hilarious. If it weren’t for the honage. Minus that.