Posts from the Var Side – Leeds Legs

Weekend before last in the little town here, I saw a lovely pair of jeans. Coppery, brown, all the shades of bread; well-riveted and with luxurious price tag, even in the ‘Soldes’. Yesterday I set out to buy them; the time between spent casting them (and me in them) in splendid Autumn scenarios back home. What fun! I told myself, becoming an Enid Blyton character.
Changing rooms raise my internal temperature by several life-threatening degrees. Surely something must have happened to me in one, or some, once, or twice, to provoke such a physiological reaction. I panic and flail: I hum loudly, as if to block out the visions of imminent disappointment – and my feet hum yet louder still; pong with all the sudden drama of the opening of a French fridge.
So heated are my feet, in fact, that I struggle to push them into and down the trousers’ tube-ish legs, which I’m now realising are so flimsy in construction that they are probably made entirely of a newly-created fabric called flim.
Then next begins the awful business of rolling up the redundant lengths (of flim) between the floor and me. One roll, two, three… fourteen, fifteen – and then the bold, hot emergence into the space outside the cubicle; there being no mirrored insides. And there confronted by an aggressive-looking PG Tips chimp, with a sweat-moulded beehive hairdo. I pivot and I notice no more than six inches between the sagging beige arse and the rolled-up chunks of hem.
Leeds Legs in their purest guise: bowed outwards as if waiting to be strung for a harp. Camembert feet, naked, splayed and perceptibly shifting, slightly gliding in their own sweet miniscus of sweat – as a pint glass might slide on a beer-wetted bar top.
The inevitable shop lady approaches to feed on the carcass that is me; me all mood and fumes, and her all advice-on-the-waistband. Never have the words (mine and repeated), ‘c’est bon, c’est bon,’ been so mendacious, so horridly ironic; ‘leave me,’ I’m meaning, ‘run – save yourself’ – all garnished with an Elephant Man-like saliva-slurping draw between each plea.
Needless to say, I do not buy the jeans. The bubble bursts. There will be no drainpiped posturing come September. Morrissey will not momentarily stretch out mid-chorus in Hull. I will not again pass over the hard-won comforts of incumbent denim, in whose unflimsy material my Leeds Legs shall remain.

A gathering of my ancestors; pioneers of Leeds Legs (my grandfather, second right, standing - yes, standing)

A gathering of my ancestors; pioneers of Leeds Legs (my grandfather, second right, standing – yes, standing)


About Stevie Mitchell

I come from a long line of cartoons and beer. I was once peed on by a tiger. Hoping the resultant super-powers are yet to come, cos if these are they, then, grrrr....
This entry was posted in comedy, Family History and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Posts from the Var Side – Leeds Legs

  1. weebluebirdie says:

    And here’s me thinking it’s just us wummen who hate the changing room experience! Apparently the 70’s are back on trend, so you could slip on a pair of platforms 🙂 And don’t worry, it’s not your backside which is the problem – it’s Them, clothing manufacturers who don’t have a clue what a real backside looks like. 🙂

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