Booze and Bras

Just back from a nice boozy lunch with my bridge friend H. She regaled me with tales of her poisonous mother, her deadleg partner, her ghastly son, and all the other inhabitants of her colourful world. While she dabbled with a bowl of mushroom soup and a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc followed quite swiftly by another, chatting all the while, I tucked with extreme heartiness into bacon and turkey parcels stuffed with mushrooms and chestnuts. It was delicious, and so were the gratin dauphinois and fresh veggies that came with it. I was a bit hungry because I ran out of time to cook a meal before the cinema last night, and had to get some Aldeburgh fish and chips which I ate in the car while Ruth got our seats. I can't usually eat whole portions, so I've cottoned on to the children's serving, all of £3, which still defeats me. I ate as much as I could in the car in a rush, but how embarrassed I was on leaving the fish and chip shop to discover my new hairdresser standing by the counter. Is she trying to remember how much I tipped her?

Which reminds me of something I noticed at my bra-buying session recently. The M&S lingerie department actually had more men in it than women, and I don't believe any of them were shopping for themselves. I found it not just disconcerting but downright unpleasant to be surrounded by men picking up frilly, scanty bras and pants in lurid colours, presumably Christmas presents for the woman in their lives. There was something pervy about it all, and I wonder how many wives and girlfriends will be thrilled when they unwrap those parcels. Why can't they buy them a David Austen rose for the garden, or a trip to Morocco? Or is it just me?