I was idly walking along the shopping thoroughfare, enjoying the good weather and Christmasy feel of December in Orchard Road when I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder.
I turned around and a lady quietly told me that the label of my shirt was hanging out. It was a long one with words that looked like a Chinese fortune teller’s paper charm from afar. She helped me tuck it back in and was rewarded by profuse thanks.
I wasn’t sure how long I had it out, but it must have been from home. Gosh. I was walking all over town with that hanging out like a tongue on my back. No matter, it is now back where it is supposed to be.
Then nature called. Off to the loo I went.
I was horrified to find tears the size of a child’s palm in my jeans where the thighs meet. I did not see them in the morning, how dare they creep up on me. Arggghh. My favourite pair too.
I cringed at how many times I had one leg up the escalator to keep balance while I happily texted on my mobile; I hope riders after me had the decency to look away.
I never wear torn jeans. This is an unintentional first.
Funny only in hindsight.