I am a Wednesday ’ schild. According to Mother Goose, I am, therefore, full of woe. That may be so. Today, a Thursday, I wish I were a Thursday’s child.
Alas, I remain the Wednesday’s child I ’ ve been for … well , long enough to be pensioned off.
Dearest Duck has abandoned me again. Abandoned is the wrong word. She has parked me at a coffee kiosk at The Mall. “Have a coffee,” she said. “Play with your laptop,” she said. “Stay,” she said, and toddled off in search of shoes. I bought a small black. I booted up the brand new laptop I’d recently bought at Walmart.
I open Microsoft Word and stared at a blank document page.
Fingers poised above the keypad, I pondered. I reflected. I observed my surrounding.
I commence d to f ocus my thoughts on women’s foundation garments. And I felt marginalized. I’m nearer to being a septuagenarian than I am to being a newly budded sexagenarian. For frig sake, I’m of such cob-webbed vintage that liver spots have bloomed atop my noggin.
But inside there’s a man decades younger. A virile man of … of … oh, I don’t know … fifty, p’raps. A man whose eyes are young enough, sharp enough to spot a swatch of ladies’ undergarments, eh b’ys?
Some of you might guess why female frillies caught my attention here at the coffee kiosk — caught my attention and, I confess, caused me to blush — considering the stock for sale at certain nearby retail establishments.
Hoping that Dearest Duck isn’t feeling like one of Cinderella’s ugly sisters at some shoe shop — and so won’t catch me at this — I feel safe to mention furbelows.
Furbelows. Here’s a word you don’t hear every Thursday, eh b’ys?
Furbelows are not truly foundation garments. They are the ruffles, flounces and flares once — think Scarlett O’Hara’s voluminous frocks, p’raps — used to decorate petticoats. Petticoats? Slips, I s’pose. Slips? I’m tippy-toeing on the crumbling edge of a dangerous precipice here. I hesitate to strike a key…
… so I’ll buy another coffee. Larger. Blacker.
If Dearest Duck returns and reads this next line she surely will apply a shoe heel — assuming she’s had shopping success — to my marginalized pate.
I’m fancying a time when one — a dressmaker p’raps — might have hoisted a furbelow-adorned petticoat and investigated the previously concealed foundation garments. One might have seen a bustle. That’s not bustle, as in hustle and … but bustle as in a rig designed to falsify — remember, this would have been in the days ages and ages before the possibility of serious posterior Botox injections — the size of a woman’s buttocks.
A bustle was tied around the waist with its padded part — a piece of tackling resembling a horse collar — settled high on the buttocks. This strategic positioning caused any slip or petticoat with attendant furbelows to flare out dramatically and falsely advertise overly endowed buttocks.
There, I’ve typed it. There’s no sign of Dearest Duck.
What do foundation garments have to do with my wish to be a Thursday’s child?
Hang on to your britches, b’ys, I’m getting there.
Saying Thursday’s child has far to go is sorta vague. Far, as in distance? Far, as in character development? Far, as in acceptance of changes in … oh, again I don’t know … changes in the popular fashions of foundation garments?
Recall I’m sitting at the coffee kiosk, and despite the diuretic effects of caffeine, sipping a third mug of cof fee, this time a sugar- laced mocha-mocha.
If I lift my eyes off my keypad I can — and, I confess, I do — ogle the contents in the display windows of the establishment across the way: Vic- toria’s Secret. Yes, said shop is there every day. But … … but, as announced on the sign invitingly propped outside the doorway, today is Thong Thursday.
I can’t help it. Perverse as it might be, I wish I were a Thurday’s child. “Harry!” Uh-oh. Distracted by brightly coloured scraps of silk and satin, I failed to hear the pitter-patter of newly shod feet.
After a lifetime in harness — I say that lovingly, of course — Dearest Duck can read my mind. Can read my mind and predict the future.
Christmas is not so distant and Dearest’s Duck’s Christmas stocking — stockings? — can certainly bear dainty accessories…
“Harry, my over-heated honey,” says Dearest Duck to this woeful Wednesday’s child, “Don’t even think it!”
Thank you for reading … and understanding.