Changing rooms in high street stores are shit.
They fall, broadly, into two categories: the Topshop type, boiling hot, with those little size cubes all over the dusty floor and a sales assistant who insists that anyone who accompanies you must themselves be carrying a Size 6 peplum skirt and a Size 18 poncho and the more upmarket type, à la Jigsaw, where sure, your boyfriend can sit on a comfortable chaise longue right outside, but the sales assistant is constantly flitting back and forth and no sooner would you have invited him in for a quick blow job in front of the mirror than she’d stick her head round the curtain to ask: ‘Did you see we have it in pink, too?’
It’s a shame, because boys give the best compliments on new clothes.
When a friend says ‘I like that dress,’ she’s thinking ‘You could wear it in the office, out to dinner, and to at least two weddings this summer.’
When a boy says ‘I like that dress,’ his fingers will be curling round the neckline, tugging sharply to see just how much give there is.
A friend will say ‘It fits really nicely at the back.’
A boy will say ‘Your arse looks *amazing*’ and, hopefully, give it a proprietary slap for good measure.
But, because I can’t get those reactions in store, I have to model new clothes in the bedroom. Which, inevitably, leads to this: