No Biggy

“I’ll take them in size nine,” I said.

The shop assistant in the origami shirt looked up from where he’d folded himself into a squat.

“Are you sure?”

He had a lisp.

He expected me to go with the size sixes on my feet. From the distance of a stranger he had a point. They fit. But that snug fit felt sinister. It always did.

“Yes,” I said. “Size nine. I’m sure.”

While Mr Stiff-yet-graceful was away searching for my nines, I pulled on my galoshes. They were as roomy as my extra-extra-large poncho.

In school I’d been El Clowno. I’d been a sad clown then. My dad used to fit my socks and knickers on me with lightning speed elastic band tricks. Now I was a professional clown with a wardrobe allowance.

On my forty-fourth birthday I bought faux lion skin bedroom slippers – size ten.

Some people say I have a problem, but Dr Chatterjee says if I’ve got a one, it hasn’t a name. She suggested we call it Personal Taste.


About Margaret Ugbo

Margaret Ugbo used to work as a doctor and may soon be working as something else. In the meantime she writes.

>> Margaret Ugbo's author page

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