The other morning I was walking to work and a woman, who was coming in the opposite direction (and definitely on a mission to get somewhere), said hello and complimented me on my dress.
Now this dress is a floral summer number, made out of the type material that my brother Sunshine would remark, 'Been flogging Great Aunt Beryl's cushions again, then?' It's retro design, made in France and possibly makes me look like I'm off to church in the fifties. And I absolutely love it, one of those dresses that puts a wee spring in my step.
Anyway, I thanked the woman for her compliment and continued on my walk to work.
But here's the thing.
She was wearing boots that were a little shinier and a little longer than these.
She had teamed them with teensy tiny wee shorts. I can't remember what top she was wearing, but her makeup had seen better days and she looked in desperate need of sleep and the cigarette she was smoking.
But it was kind of like the obese guy saying, 'Can I have four burgers, six scoops of chips and a diet coke?' Bad analogy, I know - but you get the picture ( I am poorly attempting to draw).
Regardless, I 've never had a compliment from a hooker before. I'm taking that and running with it.