As it has been a long week (mostly spent cleaning things and putting IKEA flatpack stuff together) I took myself off to Swindon today for a touch of retail therapy. I knew, even before I decided to go, that it was a shit idea. Especially as I had to go to PC World first to buy a printer, but that foray into the gutter of technology is quite another story.
All I wanted, all I crave right now, is new underwear. Something black, with boning that makes me sit up straight, something in the 50 quid plus market. Something classy. Well, as classy as Sex Underwear gets, anyway. In the absence of suitable garments on another shopping trip this week I purchased Amazing Shoes with a six inch heel and inch and a bit platform, a black leather jacket and tan leather boots. Not finding what you want during retail therapy is an expensive business.
Anyway, as stupid and pointless as searching for pretty pants in Chavland seems to everyone who possesses more than one brain cell and less than one council flat plus BONUS! screaming illegitimate child I thought I might at least have some luck in Ann Summers. However, the Swindon branch seems to have gone more for the penis party accessories market than corsets to make my healing rib twinge in a satisfactorily masochistic fashion.
I even, in a fit of ugly people induced insanity, tried Primark. All that happened is I bought a t-shirt for four quid and wondered whether the top advertising one as an "80's love child" is in fact anything to be proud of; think about what your (presumably united for the briefest of shags in neon spattered club loo hell) leg warmer clad ma and pa would have been like. I am an 80's child myself, but as far as I'm aware the glowstick movement didn't really reach the be-guncrimed depths of Nottingham.
So. My Swindon sexy time was a waste of time. But wherever you are in the world, and even if you haven't heard of Swindon, you could have told me that in the beginning.