Whenever the wind blows up a girl’s skirt, I am reminded of the iconic Marilyn Monroe photograph – where the subway train blows up air through a street grille, and Ms. Munroe pushes down her skirts against the up-draught.
This reminder lasts for a second because the reality is far less iconic and a lot less sexy and alluring.
Last week I strolled out of the office to buy a sandwich at the shops, and a bunch of other office workers were doing much the same. They came out of their office block and headed toward me. At the mid point, we would all turn and head to the shops.
Among them was a tall girl with chestnut hair up in a pony tail. She had high heels on, black tights, and a short bomber jacket. She was smoking. The main thing was that her skirt was too short, and the day was windy.
She guffawed, giggled, shrieked and attempted to control her thin skirt. This was far from sexy, but passed as a light amusement.
Today, she was there again. Same routine. I clenched my teeth.
This may have been cute once (to some), but now it was worn thin.
I wondered if this girl could actually walk a street without showing her knickers. I despaired for her husband or boyfriend now or to-come. I blushed for her mother, siblings and (most of all) for her poor dad.
No matter how much I blushed, my cheeks would never be as red as hers.
From now on, in my mind anyway, she’ll be called Rosie. Rosie Cheeks.