Leopard Print. So Much Of.

Alright. I'm ready to open up. The time for communication is here.

You see, I've been mulling this little gem over - wondering which words will aptly describe this monstrosity given to me by The Incubator. The wench has a sense of humour, right? I've always known that. But I didn't quite realise she'd actually part with hard-earned cash to demonstrate it.

We had this conversation last week.

The Incubator: Leopard print is huge in London. I've bought you something really funky. I'm sure you're going to love it.

The Pant: Oooooo! What is it? What is it? You have to tell me.

TI: All I'm saying is it's leopard print.

And then she pulled this number out of her bag:

Can you see why I have no words? It has feet! Like a real babygrow.

When I modelled it for The BF, my people, and Carlos, they insisted I lay on the floor, pretending to be the leopard hide they'll never be able to afford:

I'm hanging my head in shame.

The Incubator and Backpack.

I picked The Incubator up from the airport yesterday afternoon. The Daughter's excitement was so profound that she needed three toilet breaks before clapping eyes on her grandmother, and two after. The term "peed and went blind" took on a whole new literal meaning for me.

I'm not going to lie: I, too, was excited to see her. My mom and I are wont to share the odd glass of wine together. She's a groovy old wench, is The Incubator. I like her. And, besides which, every time I spoke to her during her sojourn, she'd say something like, "I'm so buggered. I've walked Oxford Street/Camden Market/Petticoat Lane/Portabella Road flat today.". You, too, would have been excited.

So, there we were, squashed against the railings at International Arrivals at King Shaka Airport. There were so many people pushing against us with such force, that I thought the railing might sever me in half. I have a permanent indentation - just below the rib cage.

And we waited. And waited. And lost oxygen supply to the brain. Then the first person emerged: a damn fine looking businessman. (I nearly abandoned my Dutiful Daughter post to make acquaintance with said hottie-hot-pants but he was swallowed by the frenzied crowd in less time than you could say "shake-a-my-kun".). And then a well-groomed granny (with a full face of make-up on) strolled through. She looked so fresh that there was little sign she'd just flown across continents. Just one small indicator of her long journey: camel toe. Why do people insist on travelling in jeans? They're going to creep. And you're going to feel molested. The tracksuit pant, in my humble opinion, was expressly designed for long distance travel.

A few ragged souls emerged. Followed by The Incubator and The Beauty Therapist. You know when you recognise someone but something's amiss? Well, that's what I experienced. She looked just like my mother, but something was wrong. And so I had to do the mental check list: hair (done) - check. Face (done) - check. Shirt (hers, selected by me) - check. Jeans (error, but whatever) - check. Shoes (have seen before - definitely hers) - check. Body (some weight loss, but to be expected) - check. Backpack ... what the hell? When did she become a lesbian?

We stayed up late last night, trying on new purchases and chatting and sinking bottles of red. And I took the opportunity to rip her off. I reminded her of the, "You're not a lesbian, are you?" conversation. She blushed. She made up feeble excuses (I just had too much stuff to fit it all in my suitcase). But fact remains: she owns a backpack.

And it's worrying.

Pig Squeals and Pee.

We're all pretty vain, aren't we? I mean, why do chicks swoon for compliments? Like the MC from The BF, my people, and Carlos's wedding told me I am thin tonight. If he didn't have a girlfriend, I'd have tucked into him right on the spot. Possibly with knife and fork. (He is a golden god, apparently.)

It doesn't take much to say, "You're the most beautiful girl in the world", or "Sheeeeeeesh kebab, you look hot today, babe". Really, it doesn't. And chaps, the rewards are plentiful and good.

Which gets me to my point. Those who know The Pant might consider me confident. The first night I met an ex-boyfriend, he slurred in my ear, "You're so confident, you're bordering on arrogant.". I took it as a compliment. And look what that got him. (In fact, I'm not sure what that got him - the only thing I remember from that night is that slurred speech, a bisexual girl that I was trying to hook him up with and that our taxi driver's name was Fish.)

This is a typical conversation I could have with a friend:

Friend: Pant, that guy has totally got the hots for you. He's eyescrumming you.

The Pant: It's his eyes, Friend, they're not painted on.

I like compliments, I suppose, when they come from the source. So if the guy had said, "I'm eyescrumming you", I may have replied with a whole bunch of incoherent sounds followed by a 90% lunge in the hopes of the 10% reciprocal lunge.

And so, this was my response to Anonymous's comment earlier today.

(S)he wrote:

I am...in a word, ADDICTED. I cant wait to read every morning, its like the highlight of my day - how sad is that. But seriously, you need to write a book. I live in london and i have sent your blog to ALL of my friends and they too are ADDICTED. so consider yourself international ;-)

I let out a little pig squeal - reeeeee. Followed by just a tiny pee.

Anonymous, you have rocked my world today. I thank you. And if you're a guy, well, pull in for your reward. As I've said: it'll be plentiful and good.