(no subject)
It wasn't raining at 13.59 today, when I left my office on a quest for chips. I'd've taken my coat, if it was raining, but it wasn't raining.
Until I left the building at 14.01, at which point it was raining like rain was going out of fashion. By the time I was enchipped and back at my desk (some five minutes later, incidentally) I seemed to have been entered in an impromptu one-woman wet tee-shirt competition. Hoorah, says I, everyone now knows I am wearing a very old, frayed, stained, greying white cotton sports bra. I ooze style, me.
It's okay, though. I have spare tracksuit bottoms, socks, and teeshirt in my office, kept there in case of short-notice trampoline sessions. All I have to do is change. Now, I've learned my lesson as far as stripping in the office goes, so off I toddle to the bathroom.
I pee. I remove my jeans. I remove my tee-shirt. I seize my bundle of replacement clothing and watch the only dry socks in my possession fly into the toilet.
Ew.
I clearly can't leave them there, though. The cleaners should only have to deal with so much. I did the dance of grab-them-by-the-dry bit and then stood, in my underwear, holding my dripping socks, and wondered what to do. I like these socks, but I do not want to place urine-soaked socks in my bag, on my desk, or indeed anywhere close to me. Equally, I do not want to drip pee all over the bathroom bin. What's a girl to do?
I wrapped them in toilet paper. When they resembled a gargantuan and frankly rather terrifying tampon, I put them in the bin.
My feet are still wet.
I'm not amused.
Until I left the building at 14.01, at which point it was raining like rain was going out of fashion. By the time I was enchipped and back at my desk (some five minutes later, incidentally) I seemed to have been entered in an impromptu one-woman wet tee-shirt competition. Hoorah, says I, everyone now knows I am wearing a very old, frayed, stained, greying white cotton sports bra. I ooze style, me.
It's okay, though. I have spare tracksuit bottoms, socks, and teeshirt in my office, kept there in case of short-notice trampoline sessions. All I have to do is change. Now, I've learned my lesson as far as stripping in the office goes, so off I toddle to the bathroom.
I pee. I remove my jeans. I remove my tee-shirt. I seize my bundle of replacement clothing and watch the only dry socks in my possession fly into the toilet.
Ew.
I clearly can't leave them there, though. The cleaners should only have to deal with so much. I did the dance of grab-them-by-the-dry bit and then stood, in my underwear, holding my dripping socks, and wondered what to do. I like these socks, but I do not want to place urine-soaked socks in my bag, on my desk, or indeed anywhere close to me. Equally, I do not want to drip pee all over the bathroom bin. What's a girl to do?
I wrapped them in toilet paper. When they resembled a gargantuan and frankly rather terrifying tampon, I put them in the bin.
My feet are still wet.
I'm not amused.