Horror struck this afternoon, in the crawling way it often does. I was sitting on the grass, on my own outside my office, enjoying my lonely lunch in the sun. There I was, peacefully listening to the sound of the gentle breeze rustling through the leaves, delicately layered over the noise of cars tumbling past the god forsaken outlet-shopping centre (I’ll have to write a separate blog all on that creepy place).
So, I’m there reading, thinking, reflecting on the meaning of life (so far I believe it to be cheese) and I glance down. Stark black against my porcelain left breast, (for those who don’t know me, I’m built like the stereotypical milk maid) I spy an itchy wincy spider but instead of climbing, it descends, at speed, into my bra.
Now, It should be noted, I am scared of spiders, really rather scared.
I then proceed to try and find the spider, which involves me fishing into my bra, filled with said ample bust and just roughly stroking and patting myself. Now, imagine how a woman interrogates their handbag when they’re searching for a small, lost object, scooping, frantically searching, with the contents falling out. Well in this instants the handbag is my bra, my breasts are the contents and that fucking spider is my elusive house keys.
Although I was on my own for lunch, there were many other lone diners and cliques around. I am still only in week 6 of my new job and suddenly I realise I am on the route to indecent exposure and being fired/promoted.
I begrudgingly stopped searching for the bastard arachnid and the only compromise I could summon was violently patting my breast and hoping I killed it. On reflection I don’t know why, I’ll have the terror of tonight taking my bra off and seeing a dead spider against my breast, he’s dead, I’m mentally scared, who’s winning here?
I also was pushed back to a childhood memory. I was wearing my favourite rainbow dungarees (it was the early 90s, forgive my past fashion chooses), really young and playing in the playground with other kids. A wasp flew down my trendy dungarees. Obviously this was terrifying for me but probably more so for my Mum. In said terror Mum took the next logical step. She quickly unclipped both buckles on my dungarees of many colours and they rapidly dropped to the floor. To her relief, she found that the wasp had escaped leaving me unharmed – physically that is. I was standing there naked expect from my knickers, sock and shoes, in public, surrounded by other children. Thankfully I was not a busty infant, that feature kicked in later.
I think I learnt a few behaviours that day, I imagine it was the start of my irrational fear of wasps (the fear itself, not irrational. My reaction and level of fear, irrational) and potentially that was beginning for some of the inappropriate attire I’ve worn in public – in regards to fashion sense and indecent exposure.
So to conclude, out of all the things that have fallen down/been found in my bra, (the list is extensive) insects have to be at the complete bottom of the list. In case you’re wondering the top of the list? Spare change – how that got there, is a whole ‘nother story.