Sometimes I feel like I attract strange happenings.
Surely not, I hear you cry. Sarah, you are just too well adjusted.
I know, but nonetheless....
Last week, in the toilet at The Ministry, by the sinks, was a wrinkled old carrier bag bearing a label that said:
Lady's bra -- found in corridor.
This raised a lot of questions for me. Firstly the qualification of 'lady's' in the first place - as opposed to a man's bra? But then my neurons really started to fire backwards. What do they mean? Found in corridor? How would a lady's bra (I can't help it, I will now forever refer to bras as 'lady's bras' as though there were another kind. I may even correct strangers if they say bra without it) get in the corridor? How would you lose that?
Now, it was after hours, and on my way to the lady's (toilet, not bra), I climbed the echoey (is that a word? It is now - taking my own advice to invent words at whim) stairwell and I thought I heard the gentle moans of sexual activity somewhere above. But I assumed I was imagining it.
But maybe that was where the bra came from. Maybe, it was whipped off during a passionate act of illicit congress, it fell down the centre of the stairwell, where it lodged on someone's bag. As a mail trolley went past, perhaps it snagged on the bra, still attached to the bag, and carried it away into the corridor, where as the lift doors opened, it fell to the ground and lay abandoned until a kindly civil servant carried it to the ladies, and deposited it in an old bag, for modesty's sake, in case the owner claimed it.
I told James and Kit Kat about this last week, along with accompanying hypothesis about how it was found. They stared at me doubtfully.
"Hey, I've got an idea!" James suddenly announced, "You should take in a bra next Wednesday, and every Wednesday after that. It would drive people crazy and start all sorts of rumours...."
"Yeah!" I enthused, embracing the weirdness with little resistance, "I could go to charity shops and buy loads of bras of different colours and sizes - it would be like the phantom over the shoulder boulder holder deserter!"
There was a long silence. I never know when to quit.
Well, I didn't get the chance to perpetuate the jug juggler oddness around the Ministry, because today, someone else beat me to it.
Exactly a week later. Same toilet. Same time of day. This time, in the cubicle, unsheathed by a carrier bag, old or otherwise, was a big old pair of black pants.
Pants. Actual pants. Someone's pants. I did not dare to check if they had been worn. Dear reader, I did not want to know nearly enough to even attempt it.
So, did someone else have the same idea? To bring in underwear every Wednesday? Dump your drawers Wednesdays? Unpeel your underwear day? What is happening to my life?
I know truth is stranger than fiction, but I swear to God, I am not making this shit up. My life is beginning to feel like the Truman Show. Is this a test?