The queen would not approve

I had written a post on Thursday but blogger ate it, so one piece of blog history is gone forever. Sigh. But I was basically just ranting some more about why they don't make clothes for girls' bodies, and how I tried on two dresses at Marks and Spencers that literally measured the same around the waist as the bust, so what's the point of even bothering?

But I did try on some stuff at Warehouse that fit great. See? THEY probably have a woman designer with actual, real live, boobs. You go Warehouse!

But that is not what title of this post is referring to. (The queen, let's face it, has never had my problem. She has people who find places to put her boobs for her. She doesn't have to worry about fitting off the rack, she tells Jeeves to ring up her tailor, who comes forthwith to create something with which to cover the royal T&A.)

No, this post is referring to something much more scatalogical.

See, I was walking down Pont Street, this hugely posh and kind of busy road near Harrods and Sloane Square. About 20 feet in front of me was this guy, maybe mid to late 50's. A tweedy sort, in his Rex Harrison hat, tweed jacket, barbour coat and umbrella. The usual type you see in that part of town. Suddenly, as he walked, he paused and shifted slightly to the right, putting more weight on the right leg than the left, and ever so subtly lifting the left. I looked in wonderment, as this is (in my family) the unmistakable International Sign of the Upcoming Fart. He only paused and shifted briefly, but the body language was so obvious. And then I heard it. A huge, ripping, ass exploding fart like I have never heard from anyone who was not my brother. I started laughing, but quickly squelched it when the guy looked back and saw me, with an expression of surprise on his face that there was someone behind him. He thought he had the sidewalk to himself.

I, giggling madly, was 20 feet behind the guy, on a busy traffic ridden road, and I STILL heard that fart. I must say, I was impressed. Of course I realized that I then had to walk through the Zone of Destruction that he left in his wake, so held my breath and barrelled through, all the while trying not to just bust out laughing and holler "Dude! I so heard you rip ass!"
Lord Fartly sauntered on his merry way, looking much more comfortable now and with a bit more bounce in his step. I get the feeling he had been holding on to that one for a while. I bet they don't approve of that sort of thing at his club.

I love the British. I really do.