Some people might put it down to my being thin. I’m one of Pharaoh’s lean kind, as my Nan would have said. I’ve always been slim. No excess fat. No padding. No upholstery.
The package is the product.
But by all the gods of DFS I cannot sit on a park bench for more than 30 seconds before my butt starts killing me.
I mean, real got-to-scoot-about-a-bit-right-now-before-my-buttocks-implode agonizing pain.
Is this normal? Is it just me? Because I am very aware that there other people – kids, young mums, oldsters, etc – who all hang around the park and seem able to deposit their derrieres onto the benches for upwards of an hour at a time and sit there smiling and laughing as if they have just immersed their assorted buns into a giant vat of soothingly cool Nivea skin cream.
They don’t fidget or grimace or wish they’d brought some kind of floatation device.
So there must be a marked difference between their butts and mine. It doesn’t come down to trunk size or the firmness of the pillows... ‘cos some of those old folks are so skeletal they’re in danger of falling between the slats.
Somehow my buttocks are missing the comfort chromosome; the rest-easy gene.
Park benches must obey some kind of ergonomic design plan but I seem to be the exception to that particular rule. My butt is outside their design envelope. My pert cheeks are in ergonomic exile.
I am plainly not meant to take a comfort break in a park or ever, ever be seated in one.
It’s really not fair.
And the police wonder why I hide in the bushes...