Perhaps.... Perhaps
Sometimes life isn’t fair.
It was Friday morning, 7.30 am. Flora Owens was standing in front of the full length mirror contemplating her semi-naked form in the mirror, whilst wearing only white lacy knickers and a skin tone push-up bra. She was experiencing something of a dilemma. She was not a happy girl.
Squinting into the mirror without the benefit of her glasses, which were sitting, like a beacon of imperfection on the vanity in the bathroom, Flora wrinkled her nose in distaste. This was not good. Her underwear always matched. She never went out unless it did because she was paranoid that she would be in a car crash and the doctors would have to cut off her clothes. Heaven help her that they should see she was not matching. It would be an utter disaster. The ultimate disgrace.
Flora did not cope well with surprises and spontaneity. She survived on the stability of things that came in sets. Socks, track pants and tops, a series of books, cups and saucers, bras and knickers. The world was so much nicer when everything matched and was in its rightful place. It made getting out of bed in the morning so much easier. So, her dilemma was thus...
That morning, Flora had taken her smalls off the line only to discover another pair of her knickers had disappeared. Being the third pair in as many weeks, she found the whole situation mysterious and she wasn’t sure if it was happening during the wash or when they got to the line but her guess was the latter. Her guess was that the troll, who lived next door in Number Two, was covetous of her collection of frilly knickers and was pilfering them one by one in the dead of night. Of course, Flora would never confront her and demand to view the contents of her knicker drawer to prove the point; she wasn’t that type of girl. But if the troll couldn’t afford a decent hair cut she probably couldn’t afford sexy undies either. It was the perfect excuse to snowdrop all the cute ones from other people’s lines. That was the theory, anyway.
Turning sideways to the mirror, Flora inspected her form. The missing underwear posed a new problem. It meant she would have to ditch yet another bra and go and buy a whole new set, which on her teacher’s salary she could ill afford. It also meant she would have to resort to hanging her undies in the bathroom which was not good at all. It had taken months to arrange the furniture so that her good fortunes were not flowing out the door. The positive chi of the house would be wrecked if her personals were flopping around like a Chinese laundry.
Taking another look at the mismatched set and, resigned to the fact that she would never see her undies again unless she stooped to the level of other tenants, Flora opened the door to her wardrobe.
I hope I don’t get run over by a bus on the way to school, she thought, testily. If I end up in hospital wearing underwear that doesn’t match I may have to sue that knicker-stealer for emotional distress.
She smiled a little to herself at that. Flora could never sue anybody. She wasn’t the kind of girl to speak out of turn. She was a self-confessed wallflower. Just liked her name.
Choosing a skirt - floral and the same A-line style as every other skirt she wore during the week - Flora pulled it over her slim hips and zipped it. She added a crisp white shirt with flirty puffed sleeves, which she buttoned to a respectable level, above her gently rounded cleavage. She slid her feet into a dainty pair of coordinating, baby pink, patent pumps. Semi-satisfied, Flora stepped into the bathroom to dry her honey blonde hair and whip it into a bun at the nape of her neck. She liked buns. They made her feel professional. Plus, they kept the glue and paint out of her hair. Her Year One class were not known for their dexterity with craft implements.
She stopped for one final twirl in the mirror. Her legs, long and lithe, the type that made men stare in awe, were hidden by the fall of her skirt; and her curves, enough to awaken envy in every female in the staff room, were disguised by the shirt that clung not too tightly around her ribs. Not that she had ever noticed these assets. Flora was far too busy being organised to notice the adoring attentions that her form released in the opposite sex and those of her own alike. And opinions would not have mattered if she had. She cared little for the opinion of others. Louise said men only told you how pretty you were when they wanted a shag; though Flora wasn’t sure about this. She’d never been told she was pretty.
That’ll have to do, she thought, sliding her glasses onto the end of her nose and taking another quick look in the mirror. Maybe she should leave the glasses at home, today? Her friend, PJ, was always urging her to ditch them. Uncertainly, she took them off and studied her profile. Definitely not, she decided, and put them back on. That nose was just way too big to be seen without some form of covering.
So, humming with a contentment born of security, she wandered out to the kitchen and began the routine of breakfast. Yes, Flora Owens had a lovely, predictable life. She was never late for work. She washed her hair on Tuesdays and Fridays. She had gorgeous friends and a job she adored. She had a faux-Mediterranean roof over her head and, usually, matching sets of underwear. She ate her food with precision to speed up her metabolism and always swallowed after the tenth chew. Everything had its place. Nothing ever intruded.
All this was true.
But all this was about to change.
It was Friday morning, 7.30 am. Flora Owens was standing in front of the full length mirror contemplating her semi-naked form in the mirror, whilst wearing only white lacy knickers and a skin tone push-up bra. She was experiencing something of a dilemma. She was not a happy girl.
Squinting into the mirror without the benefit of her glasses, which were sitting, like a beacon of imperfection on the vanity in the bathroom, Flora wrinkled her nose in distaste. This was not good. Her underwear always matched. She never went out unless it did because she was paranoid that she would be in a car crash and the doctors would have to cut off her clothes. Heaven help her that they should see she was not matching. It would be an utter disaster. The ultimate disgrace.
Flora did not cope well with surprises and spontaneity. She survived on the stability of things that came in sets. Socks, track pants and tops, a series of books, cups and saucers, bras and knickers. The world was so much nicer when everything matched and was in its rightful place. It made getting out of bed in the morning so much easier. So, her dilemma was thus...
That morning, Flora had taken her smalls off the line only to discover another pair of her knickers had disappeared. Being the third pair in as many weeks, she found the whole situation mysterious and she wasn’t sure if it was happening during the wash or when they got to the line but her guess was the latter. Her guess was that the troll, who lived next door in Number Two, was covetous of her collection of frilly knickers and was pilfering them one by one in the dead of night. Of course, Flora would never confront her and demand to view the contents of her knicker drawer to prove the point; she wasn’t that type of girl. But if the troll couldn’t afford a decent hair cut she probably couldn’t afford sexy undies either. It was the perfect excuse to snowdrop all the cute ones from other people’s lines. That was the theory, anyway.
Turning sideways to the mirror, Flora inspected her form. The missing underwear posed a new problem. It meant she would have to ditch yet another bra and go and buy a whole new set, which on her teacher’s salary she could ill afford. It also meant she would have to resort to hanging her undies in the bathroom which was not good at all. It had taken months to arrange the furniture so that her good fortunes were not flowing out the door. The positive chi of the house would be wrecked if her personals were flopping around like a Chinese laundry.
Taking another look at the mismatched set and, resigned to the fact that she would never see her undies again unless she stooped to the level of other tenants, Flora opened the door to her wardrobe.
I hope I don’t get run over by a bus on the way to school, she thought, testily. If I end up in hospital wearing underwear that doesn’t match I may have to sue that knicker-stealer for emotional distress.
She smiled a little to herself at that. Flora could never sue anybody. She wasn’t the kind of girl to speak out of turn. She was a self-confessed wallflower. Just liked her name.
Choosing a skirt - floral and the same A-line style as every other skirt she wore during the week - Flora pulled it over her slim hips and zipped it. She added a crisp white shirt with flirty puffed sleeves, which she buttoned to a respectable level, above her gently rounded cleavage. She slid her feet into a dainty pair of coordinating, baby pink, patent pumps. Semi-satisfied, Flora stepped into the bathroom to dry her honey blonde hair and whip it into a bun at the nape of her neck. She liked buns. They made her feel professional. Plus, they kept the glue and paint out of her hair. Her Year One class were not known for their dexterity with craft implements.
She stopped for one final twirl in the mirror. Her legs, long and lithe, the type that made men stare in awe, were hidden by the fall of her skirt; and her curves, enough to awaken envy in every female in the staff room, were disguised by the shirt that clung not too tightly around her ribs. Not that she had ever noticed these assets. Flora was far too busy being organised to notice the adoring attentions that her form released in the opposite sex and those of her own alike. And opinions would not have mattered if she had. She cared little for the opinion of others. Louise said men only told you how pretty you were when they wanted a shag; though Flora wasn’t sure about this. She’d never been told she was pretty.
That’ll have to do, she thought, sliding her glasses onto the end of her nose and taking another quick look in the mirror. Maybe she should leave the glasses at home, today? Her friend, PJ, was always urging her to ditch them. Uncertainly, she took them off and studied her profile. Definitely not, she decided, and put them back on. That nose was just way too big to be seen without some form of covering.
So, humming with a contentment born of security, she wandered out to the kitchen and began the routine of breakfast. Yes, Flora Owens had a lovely, predictable life. She was never late for work. She washed her hair on Tuesdays and Fridays. She had gorgeous friends and a job she adored. She had a faux-Mediterranean roof over her head and, usually, matching sets of underwear. She ate her food with precision to speed up her metabolism and always swallowed after the tenth chew. Everything had its place. Nothing ever intruded.
All this was true.
But all this was about to change.
