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.
