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A Tale about a Black and Purple Thong, Some Kitchen Delivery Men and Our Postman

One of the lesser ‘hardships’ I endured whilst renovating Stone Cottage Skye was using the public laundrette in Broadford. Broadford is the nearest town from me, about 16 miles away.

I’d rigged up a washing line in my upstairs bedroom, slung between two wall – the most sensible option for drying my clothes in the winter. So I wasn’t particularly surprised, when upstairs, unloading my washing bag,  to find a black and  purple thong nestling amongst my cleanly washed stuff. It must have been in the washing machine when I put my clothes into it.

Now I know what you’re thinking, people don’t wear thongs anymore. Well, this is Skye, where people has a noticeably relaxed approach to what can and can’t be worn.

I thought I’d do the decent thing, and be a good citizen and return the thong to the laundrette next time I went to Broadford. So I screwed the thong into a ball and lobbed it through the landing doorway into the atrium space downstairs. Hopefully it would land close to the back door and so remind me to put said thong into the car.

Oh, the embarrassment

It was only afterwards, when the kitchen delivery guys had finished dropping the second consignment of my kitchen order, that I noticed the thong hanging on some plumbing pipework at head height, just where the delivery guys had to walk past each time to drop my kitchen items off. At the time I couldn’t work out why they had a slight smirk to their faces when waiting for me to sign for the delivery.

Shit, I thought, that was embarrassing, I’d better put the thong in the car before any other visitors get the wrong idea. So I dropped the thong in the car, on the passenger seat.

This thong simply won’t give up embarassing me?

It was only at the end of the day when I went back to the car that I noticed something which caused me to blush. On the car seat, exactly parallel to the underwear, not quite touching, was today’s postal delivery. Nigel Nice, our usual postman  usually puts the post in the caravan I was living in at the time. As he was away, the temporary postman had used the car to drop my post off instead. I can’t make my mind up whether the locals now think I’m cross dressing or some kind of lothario. To this day the postman’s never mentioned it, but always gives me a cheery wave when driving past.


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