de95e15e1ff56dd809fc50704eab33498175153ee93f1989dafe6785b262e2eeI have a friend who has a friend. One morning, she woke up from her beauty sleep feeling happy and rejuvenated. She lived on the top floor of the building, and when the post man came to deliver the mail, he just dropped it outside her door. This morning, when she opened her door to retrieve her mail, a little accident happened… She had stepped outside to get the mail- mostly bills and a reminder to go to the dentist- wearing only the thong and low cut tank top she had slept in. As she pondered a seemingly attractive offer from ASDA, she heard the ominous sound of a creaking door, and turned around just in time to see the door shut. With the cry of a thousand tears stuck in her throat, panic struck the Girl as reality dawned on her- she was locked out of her apartment with no phone, in an outfit more suitable for someone working the night shift, if you know what I’m saying. She tried banging on the other doors in the house but to no avail- what was she to do? After what seemed like an eternity, she realised  she had to do something. She grabbed life by the balls, and stepped outside, right onto the King’s Road in the heart of Chelsea. Like a hot, caucasian, female Usain Bolt wearing ladies underwear, heckled by wolf whistles and indecent proposals, she made a run for it down the street to where I lived.  Unfortunately, I wasn’t home. Next, she went into the real estate agency across the street that had let her the apartment to ask for a spare key, but to her surprise, they didn’t seem that keen on having her hanging around the office, so they shooed her away. She felt like the town witch- unwanted and cursed, walking from door to door, trying to seek the kindness of strangers. With every step she anticipated rotten tomatoes being thrown in her face, or maybe getting arrested for indecent public exposure. In desperation, she grabbed an umbrella from the real estate office and tried to wrap it around herself. But the question was- hide her face, or hide her ass? Decisions.  She went back to my apartment and found the caretaker, a middle aged and slightly overweight man, who provided her with a pair of pants from his own personal wardrobe. Next up, she shuffled along in her oversized corduroy pants to a nearby internet cafe, where she had to beg on her knees to use the internet- I mean, Jesus, help a lady in need, right? After diligent facebooking, she managed to contact a friend with a spare key, who could come to her rescue… Like three hours later.

(im)moral of the story: Always wear nice underwear, never wear corduroy.

(image via )