I was waiting for a prescription at the chemists today when I was spoken to by a, what is it they call them, Lady of A Certain Age? I did not understand her approach at first – it was not as if either of us had stepped on the other’s toes. She was asking me if I had enjoyed the final day of the cricket. As I was not wearing my MCC tie at the time, (irony) she had no way of knowing if I was a supporter of Kipling and his muddied oafs. But, no, she gabbled on which gave me the chance to observe her more fully.
She was well coiffured and the war paint was impressive if a little much for Duns at 10:30 in the morning. She was quite trim and curvaceous in the Marilyn Monroe slightly chubby sort of way. Her secondary sexual characteristics were displayed in a style akin to Rigby and Pellier’s finest products where they were lifted as if on a shelf but not crammed together like economy class passengers. From the front, she suggested a nice backside. She had a quiet voice, upper register. I could not tell if she were one of those Scots who have no discernable accent or English. She had the habit of a low-frequency blink which served to draw attention to lashes and eye-socket make up. She seemed to hold her hands at about bust level and to flutter them to add emphasis to her speech. I was able to get this input in a very quick manner due to my many years as a heterosexual male with quick eyes. She remained on the subject of our cricket re-birth. I empathised with the occasional hmmn, hum or whatever one does.
I was served. I said to my Mata Hari look-alike that I had to go and wished her good day. It was as she manoeuvred to get ahead of me that I looked down at her feet and I then realised that I had been accosted by a Fluffragette. The idea behind this was explained by Cherri Gilham in her “Fluffy Manifesto” in the Daily Mail. A fluffragette is a pre-feminist type of woman who aims to control men by using feminine wiles and sexual power. As Ms Gilham put it, they intend to, “giggle, pout, flirt and coo” their way to emancipation. The term was popularised in a rejoinder by Suzanne Moore, a feminist and columnist in the Independent (and formerly of the Guardian, where she had a huge spat with Dr Germaine Greer, who famously described her as wearing fuck-me shoes, a term invented in the eighties). My accoster was wearing incredibly sexy shoes. Just little straps of almost nothing. Think Audrey Hepburn having Breakfast at Tiffanies. Of the whole composition that was My Mysterious Woman, these tiny flimsy sandals were the most expressive element. Sex on wheels – with a message exactly as described by the educated Aussie. I left the shop and looked around the Square. I almost expected to see a Daimler with a chauffeur booted and spurred. No – nothing out of the ordinary. Who she is or was, I do not know. What caused her to open a conversation with me is also a mystery. Whilst I was the best looking male in an otherwise empty shop, that does not explain it. At my advanced age, I was content to let things lie as they fell but in retrospect, it was very intriguing. Ships that pass in the night and all that sort of thing.
http://www.worldwidewords.org/articles/wordsof97.htm
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