After the ranting of Friday and the raving of Saturday’s blog post, I thought I would go back to the way this blog used to be, with me telling you how I went to see the new Tom Stoppard play, The Hard Problem, at the National on Saturday, and how I thought it was very good. Although I cannot pretend that I understood it at a deep and meaningful intellectual level. This was borne out by me catching the panel on Saturday Review discussing it on Radio Four as I was on the way home that night, and thinking I might have been seeing a different play entirely and perhaps I’d just gone in the wrong door.
Easy to do at the National. Andrea and I are convinced that there is an entirely other level of theatre that exists in some kind of concrete based wormhole, somewhere in quantum approximation with the second floor. We once went for a coffee there. It was very nice. We’ve never been able to get back there since.
I was going to tell you that I made an extremely good Roman shield out of cardboard on Sunday, and I hope I get top marks at the Romans, again. Given that this is the third or fourth one I’ve made, I think I’ve honed my technique pretty well now. I’ve really found my groove with the whole shields of pre-history theme. I might be a shield maker when I grow up.
But I’m not going to tell you those things because I really, really have to mention the whole leggings situation that is in the news at the moment. I suspect most of you may know this already, but I was astounded to find that apparently, a God fearing Christian lady has been compelled by the Lord to give up leggings because she has become privy to the sure and certain knowledge that leggings drive men wild with lust.
Why don’t I know these things? Why are these vital informations passing me by? Is it because I no longer read Cosmopolitan? Is it because I am not metrosexual (am I? I don’t even know what metrosexual means. Is this because I don’t read Cosmopolitan?) I need to have some kind of lady based hotline that can tell me about things like vaginal steaming and the lewdness of leggings when they are still news. I feel that I am missing out, here in my dull backwater, where all I have to worry about all day is understanding Tom Stoppard and crafting my next Roman shield.
LIFE IS PASSING ME BY.
This weekend I am taking Jason away for his birthday. I had hoped for a weekend of romantic derring do and hot cha cha cha, because we will be sans children. I am bereft that this is simply not to be, as I do not have the time this week to nip over to George at Asda and buy leggings to tantalise him with. How can I be expected to drive him wild with desire if my legs are not entirely clad in a poly cotton/viscose/lycra mix, hand crafted by toddlers in sweatshops up and down Asia, and available in a variety of startling colours and patterns?
As it is, I have the feeling that even if I somehow managed to shoe horn in a visit to the supermarket, I would probably be sorely disappointed. The shelves must be bare, surely?
I know that for some, virtuous, God fearing people leggings will forever be taboo, now that we fully understand their true allure, but for the rest of us, this must be the best news we have had all year.
After all, no longer do we have to worry about paying £450 for a pair of velvet lined hand cuffs and a mink frilled ‘titillating’ ostrich feather from Coco de Mer, or squeezing our fat bits into the ridiculously tiny underwear from Agent Provocateur, which, as my dad would say, wouldn’t even give you enough material to blow your nose on, and is more hole than anything else. It’s a bit like trying to wear a shrink washed shrimping net, frankly.
Every frustrated woman in the land, single and desperate for a decent shag, or merely world weary and wanting to lure their husband away from the delights of back to back episodes of Top Gear on DAVE must be out there, filling shopping trolleys and people carriers with this most effective of aphrodisiacs. Who needs the Red Room of Pain and a well thumbed copy of Fifty Shades of Grey when you can shuffle your arse into a pair of leggings and have every man in a fifty mile radius coming after you hoping to slake their ardour?
Obviously it is too late for me now, but I’m sure I can improvise. I wonder how God (and Jason) feel about waders? There is a fishing tackle shop just down the road.