Sunday

I was accused of looking down a woman’s top today. I didn’t even mean to. She bent over in front of me and my eyes instinctively looked towards her breasts. It’s not my fault. Men, as a sub-species, cannot help it. We are like moths to a mammary flame. We don’t even think, we just do it. I bet I could be blindfolded in a room of women and still be able to pinpoint the exact second even a small hint of cleavage was displayed. It’s genetic. But the fact I was caught wasn’t even the worst part of this mortifying experience. Once she had seen me looking, she then said to me: “Do you want a peek at my gash as well?” I almost had a stroke I was so embarrassed. I left Tesco feeling like I should sign the sex offender’s register.