Of empty shops and a touch-worthy fleece

Walking down my local High Street last weekend I looked in the windows of one of the shops that were forced to close at the height of the credit crunch last year. This was a shoe shop formerly known as Barratts.

The unit has large empty windows and bare walls, with the odd seat and plastic stand littering the carpet down the length of the shop. The sign on the far wall has lost some of its lettering and must have echoed the thoughts of the (more polite) members of staff when they were told they were losing their job.

It reads R.A.T.T.S (with the missing letters suggesting where the newly redundant staff might have headed).


Change of topic now. Can't be arsed trying to make a neat seque. I was at my local writers’ club meeting the other night. It was an excellent, thought-full talk on writing humourous articles. (I believe that the minute you stop trying to learn is when you should stop – and like, I need all the help I can get) given by the talented and glamourous, Ms Eileen West.

Aside from Eileen’s worthwhile hints and tips, a talking point of the evening was the fleece top I was wearing.

It’s a Craghopper fleece - forgive a wee spot of product placement. (Let’s talk, Craghopper people. Or your people can call my people) It’s – eesh, I’m rubbish at colours – golden retriever colour and it’s as soft as the fur on a puppy’s ear. So far, so nice.

And what I’ve discovered is that women can’t help but touch it.

Every women I spoke to held a hand out and stroked my shoulder/ arm/ chest as if hypnotised. I’m not some kind of play-thing-sex-toy to be objectified! Honestly, I’m considering litigation.

Or.

I might just pick up some scissors....and indulge in some tailoring. I could cut up the fleece and make it into other items of clothing.

I’m thinking speedos.