Dear Diary, This morning Niece informed me that we were off to the city. It seems that I need new underwear, though how she deduced this I am at a loss to explain, unless she closely examines my knickers when doing the washing. The thought of such an obscene act makes my stomach churn.
I bustled around, pulled on my stockings, and after checking the back seam was straight, wriggled into my plain grey, slightly flared skirt, and neatly tuck my pink blouse into the waistband. Niece was ready before me. She doesn't wear any makeup, which let me whisper, makes her look older than me, while I, always one to take utmost care of my appearances, dab on a little face cream, powder, and just a touch of rouge, and a hint of pale lipstick. The overall finish is stunning!
At the departmental store Niece heads straight for the corner that sells ladies under garments. I thought we were looking for satin bikini briefs, which are an absolute delight to wear. But no! She drags me [I can't rush, I am not a spring chicken], to a rack of disgustingly cheap looking cotton panties with waists almost up to the armpits, and the nearby cluster of brassieres in shades of virginal white or puce. I protested! I protested loudly! [That always works; niece hates a display of what she calls childish behaviour.]
When I quietly spoke of satin briefs and perhaps a matching bra [not that I like that word bra ... such a short word isn't it for such an important task in life], she acquiesced. Well she had little option. I am not one for letting myself be bulldozed into a corner all day and every day.
Dear Diary, I relished my triumphant return home, my tiny worked-to-the-bone hands carefully clutching my parcel of bright pink matching under garments, plus another set for good in a wholesome black, with an edging of black lace and tiny pink roses as a delicate embellishment.
A small postscript Dear Diary, I would love to show you how I look in these garments, but modesty prevents me from such a wanton display of vanity.
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