Sunday, 27 December 2015

Girls have boobs.

In my local bit of London - the town centre that everyone seems to have heard of but nobody's ever been to, despite Boris liking it a lot (allegedly) - there's a department store. There are a few, but this one's the main one; it's opposite the market that's been there since Norman Britain and has been around for about as long. It's in a picture from my gran's childhood, so that proves it.

When I was younger, it was filled with own-brand produce and was an outseller of stuff from other companies; today, the ground floor is completely gentrified and looks like something you'd find in Milan, or possibly TOWIE. It is subdivided into small stalls, each selling perfume and makeup (and, it seems, not much else) from increasingly expensive fashion labels, and is populated by young ladies from the 18 - 45 age bracket in terms of both staff and customers.

Which is all fine, except it's not my scene.

In the week before Christmas I fought my way through the glitter and hanging decorations in order to buy some placemats (it's a long story) and, briefly, came face-to-face with a staff member with some of the most well-proportioned boobs I think I've ever seen. I wasn't looking... specifically... but couldn't help but catch a glimpse, and they just seemed perfect. The right size and shape to fit her slight, short frame, and she'd chosen a top which showed them off a little (only a little, rather than the HERE ARE MY BOOBS tops which my ex-classmate used to wear). She was also sporting fake eyelashes that looked like offensive weapons, but overall she was very attractive and had nice-looking boobs.

And I almost hugged her.

Okay, well, not almost. I had my girlfriend with me and we were battling through the crowds who, it seemed, had all had the idea to go Christmas shopping earlier than planned. I was feeling both battered and affectionate and was rather looking forward to going home and clutching my girlfriend's warm body to me as we lay on our bed. I thought I'd give her a quick squeeze, as if to convey all my attentions, and for about half a second my intention was to let go of her hand, and take this staff member in my arms, as if the rĂ´le of "girlfriend" had been temporarily transferred to her. Fortunately for all involved, I immediately remembered who everyone was in this situation, and continued on my way, towed by my real girlfriend, who seemed even more keen to escape the throng than I was.

For a while afterwards, I veered between confused and upset. I'd had my girlfriend with me and had, instead, clocked this poor staff member, who was probably overworked and underpaid and had a fantastic chest and didn't want to be leered at by a tired ILB. I've never really considered myself one to objectify young ladies, and yet here I was, passing by someone I didn't know and considering her someone to hug for about 0.5 of a second. And, for some reason, this perturbed me.

Probably more than it should. Although, now I think about it, I might as well have pointed her out to my girlfriend too; I can't help but imagine she may have, as well, enjoyed the view!

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