It could be the pall of fog that has descended over the Midlands. It could be the cold that has swelled up in my respiratory passages like a water filled balloon. It could even just be the time of year...
But I feel like pants this morning.
And not nice, saucily exotic pants either but dull, off-white, verging on grey pants with a bobbly gusset.
In the great Pantheon of the Pant Gods, I have been transfigured by the Pant God of Death and Depression.
My elasticised waist is ropey and loose. I’ve gone horribly baggy around the back. The fabric around the front is wearing unpleasantly thin. And the less said about the skid-marks on the left inside leg the better.
I need a makeover but boxers and G-strings just aren’t my style.
I’d go commando but I have strong pacifist leanings.
Sports briefs on someone as naturally sedentary as myself just wouldn’t wash.
And as for fig leaves... well, they bring me out in a rash.
Geez. Is there really no other alternative but ladies underwear?
Aren’t I depressed enough without having to shop at Ann Summers for myself...?