Post holiday adventures: nudity, ridicule and wolf-whistling...

After my lovely holiday in the Lake District I had a bit of a tan and the continued clement weather made me go out on the lookout for a summer dress.
As regular readers will know, I’ve lost a lot of weight in the last few months, so my old wardrobe is now redundant, and I’m having to replace it bit by bit.
So I went out and started to try things on. The only one I liked was only available in two sizes – 12 and 8. The 12 is now too big, and amazingly the 8 seemed OK, so I congratulated myself on a good purchase.
The dress looked fine at home. My housemate even said it looked nice. So I wore it for work on Wednesday, feeling full of the joys of summer.
In the cold fluorescent light of the office, what had looked bright, breezy and summery suddenly looked like a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen.
My two best friends – voted Liverpool’s third best t**ts in a previous column, may I say – looked as though they were making a break for freedom, and at any moment they’d succeed. In fact, most of them already had.
Like the time I cut my own hair with disastrous results, the reaction in the office was mixed. Some were very kind and tried to reassure me it was OK. Others mocked me openly about my inappropriate attire for work. I’d have attracted less attention if I’d been naked I think.
So, at lunchtime I went out to buy a cardigan to cover my modesty.
On my way I walked past a building site, and is it bad to admit that I was secretly pleased to hear the builders start to whistle? I know it’s frowned upon these days, but I love a good wolf-whistle.
I walked tall and looked up at my admirers.
And then a terrible thing happened.
One of them shouted something, and I’m sure it was: “Not you, love!�. I’m not sure I’ve ever been more disappointed.
I slunk dejectedly back to the office empty-handed. Ridicule didn’t seem so bad after that.