So I’m in a shopping centre in Aarhus and wife, needing new underwear, veers into a shop to try on overpriced bras, in that faux nonchalance she employs when trying to pretend a visit to a shop is completely by chance and not part of some google researched itinerary.
She tells me she’ll probably be a while and suggests I go look in some manly shops. She says ‘manly’ in a deep voice, (surprisingly deep for such a feminine woman) and smiles at the rep as she does – waiting for her to laugh. Older (perhaps too butch to be working in a lingerie store) rep laughs behind her raised hairy hand and briefly closed eyes. Not in that ‘I want your money, so I’m going to laugh at everything you say’ kind of way, but genuine laughter. My wife’s always entertaining. She can’t help it.
I consider walking over to a map of the mall and looking in ‘B’ for Beards R Us, but to be honest, I’m all shopped out, so I decide to lean up against a balcony rail just outside the shop and wait or jump. Then I see it.
Right there in the front window display. Next to all the other bustier clad mannequins is one just to left of the main doors – completely bottomless. No baggies! Starkers!
I want to look away but I can’t. She’s there with her middle section exposed for the whole mall to see. What the f..!
Now I know to you this is just a plastic dummy. And I know the pelvic area that haunts me, isn’t in fact a pelvic area at all but a smooth politically correct magnolia coloured void, but I’m a writer – and not just any writer. I’m a writer suffering from ‘Insufferably Super Active Writer’s Imagination Disease’, or iSAWID for short.
I’ve wrestled with this seldom discussed disease for years now. iSAWID, a bit like my appreciation for Eddie Murphy and Ben Stiller, comes and goes, but when it’s here, it’s really here, to point of debilitation:
You hear a tree rustle, I hear an ominous chainsaw derived from Texas. You see two lovers in the park. I see a woman who’s about to poison her boyfriend of seven years with a high concentration of Cillit Bang, because he cheated on her with her best friend’s aunt from Penge. You see a plastic, inanimate human shaped object. I see a mannequin crying, nay yelling to her peers to throw her some knickers, a thong or a large sale sticker; anything to remove the shame of having her bits on display.
I can still hear the screams! They’re going to have to increase my dosage again.