Fat Bits.# a bit of titillation

I ran a likely scenario though and packed my little Grace Kelly bag accordingly. This time I wouldn’t be caught on the hop with just a gut full of beer as protection for STDs.

I looked at my one condom in my bedside drawer. It was old. As a modern woman I felt I could just walk into any supermarket, or chemist and purchase what I needed. No need to feel embarrassed at all. The most natural thing in the world. I wondered if they came in packs of three.

My local supermarket was a short drive away and as I entered I scouted around looking for anyone I knew. It was reasonably empty. Always a good sign.

Condoms, I found, come in all shapes and sizes, and it seemed colours too. I could have gone for the sixteen pack, but opted for the twenty pack. You might call it family size, except that would be an oxymoron. I lingered over my choice when I saw flavoured condoms.

Why would anyone want a flavoured condom? I stood there for about a minute contemplating the question looking at the personal lubricants when the answer hit me and I could feel myself blushing.

Why is it when you just want to do a bit of shopping you come away with more than you need? All I wanted was a packet of condoms, and I ended up with a basket of goods. My supermarket hasn’t come into the 21^st century and there are only two self-serve check outs, both busy. I waited, but then the woman on the checkout beckoned my over.

“Over here dear.” She pointed to her conveyor belt.

I trudged over and deposited my things on her belt. Of all the people to come and stand in line the last person I would have expected was Mr Schwartz.

“Hello there.” He nodded and shuffled his walker forward. My condoms were sticking out like red dogs ball next to his liquorice allsorts.

“Lavinia likes these,” he pointed in the direction of his lollies, although to my eye it looked like his wizened finger was pointing to my condoms.

“Well, I better get on,” I shoved my things further up to the checkout woman.

“Going away for the weekend?”

“Yes.” I began to hand my items to the woman.

“Somewhere nice?”

“Yes, a yacht actually.” I could have just said ‘yes, the country', but when you are invited on a yacht somehow you can’t seem to help yourself. It just popped out.

“Really.”

“Yes.” I re-doubled my efforts to get my stuff through the check out.

“Hang on luvvie. I’m not superwoman you know.”

Of course she would say it just when I was passing her my condoms. We all looked at my purchase in my hand.

I giggled. “Hen’s party balloons.” I blurted. They blipped without incident and after my orange juice I was done.

“Going my way?” My Schwartz grabbed my arm.

Now I don’t know about you, but when your neighbour askes a favour, well…what would the world be if we couldn’t do a simple thing as take a neighbour home and save him taxi fare. That he insisted on carrying my shopping on his lap and ‘they’ were in plain sight was Murphy’s Law.

I parked and he toddled off, probably to fill Lavinia in on all the details.

“Condoms, you say. A hen’ night, you say. What did I tell ya? What did I say Al? That girl is being left behind.”