London was in the midst of a heat wave for the first week or so of our visit. Mind you, that didn’t stop it from dropping the occasional rain on us. Here you see me in my summery dress, protecting myself from this absurd sky-water the English insist on having:
How happy I was in my floaty little skirt. It reminds me of something, some image I’ve seen…someone else who was so happy in her floaty skirt. Who was it? Oh yes, I remember:
(This is foreshadowing, by the way.)
As soon as we got down into the Tube, I became aware that I was going to have to clutch firmly at my skirt with both hands to avoid disaster, and I did so through three different stations and two trains, diligently grasping large handfuls of cloth, looking like a penguin who had chosen the wrong dress to wear.Then we came out of the station onto the street and I let go of my skirt because I thought I was safe. Of course I was wrong. London, may I introduce my underpants? Underpants, meet London.
Thank goodness cityfolk are always so imperturbable, and that the natural inclination of the British mind is to pretend not to see embarrassing things. Of all the twenty or so people who saw my underpants, not one of them appeared to notice.
Also, that gleeful look Marilyn has on her face? That’s not the look I had on my face.