"Hey you...hello baby... hey, hey, come over here...yeah, baby, you..."
So I was walking along about to turn into my street and get back to my lovely new flat after a long, long, long day at work when this trio of leering teenage boys, covered in bandanas, baggy trousers with the left leg inexplicably rolled up and elaborately corn-rowed hair, started to call out to me on the other side of the road. And there I was, thinking I was *so* hard - I stopped and shouted back at them, "You talking to me? You talking to me?" in my best short Chinese De Nero impression which only encourages these boys to start beckoning me over, "No, you come here baby, you come here to us." So I lost my temper slightly and stood there beckoning them to me, daring them to cross over and confront me and they didn't so I turned away, nose in the air, marching away radiating indignation and wounded triumph, a spring in my step as I walked away victorious. Then the boys played their trump card and shouted after me, down the length of the street,"You better pull your flies up, girl; I can see your panties and they're black."
One surreptitious fumble at my gaping waistband proved them horribly right and I carried on to my door with my nose still in the air but with my jacket pulled tightly over my exposed crotch.
Oh the horrible, horrible shame of it.
The moral of this story is...don't try to be clever when you've failed to do up your trousers properly.
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