I am not, however, going to talk about my breasts.

I have of late - but wherefore I know not - come to a decision about my ongoing indecision to take up a place of permanent abode.
One reason for this would be laziness, pure and simple. The other is that I am a slatternly house keeper, but this is not news. The main reason for this is that I have a lot of clothes. Which only becomes a bad thing because I hate doing laundry. Pure and simple. Except today I ran out of clean knickers and was therefore forced to abandon all my plans and spent the day in penance: in pyjamas, eating ice-cream out of the container like the slatternly house keeper I appear to be.

"So how was your day babe?"
"Um. I watched the whole first season of Buffy and I finished the cheddar. And I ate half a container of ice-cream."
"That good, huh?"
"Absolutely. Did you know there's an actual Techno Pagan in Buffy?"

There was a bit of a tangent there for a while. Much mirth. Where do they come up with these things?

But knickers. That's what this post was about.
"But what do I do? I'm all out of clean clothes. How do you still have clean clothes to wear? Have you been doing laundry without me?"
He lobbed a bit of satsuma at me from his place of safety behind the breakfast bar.
"Hey! If you get these dirty, what, may I ask, will I be wearing then?"

*pause*

"Oh. OK, fine. I'll do some laundry."
"If you're still hunting for a place to live that isn't here--"
"-- I haven't decided." *folds arms, waits*
"-- maybe you should start considering answering one of those more creepy flatmate ads? You know, Female flatmate wanted. No rent required provided she's willing to walk round naked, sort of thing."

I was eyeing the remains of the ice-cream at the time, and it struck me that maybe putting myself in a place where I'd be naked a large proportion of the time might not be to my advantage. Particularly if it was just my sheer bloody mindedness that got me there. There was another pause while I mulled over my options.

"Maybe, maybe I'll just buy some new clothes. How about that?"

At the time I may not have been wholly serious. But I'm begining to worry about my waistline - another day alone in the flat and Stuart might come home to find his girlfriend crouching on top of the worksurfaces with wall tiles sticking out of her mouth. And then the game is up.
Mail ordering some new clothes is seeming more and more like a possibility every moment.