On Friday I was standing in the kitchen prying the lid of an old jar of blackberry jam that had somehow managed to migrate to the back of the refrigerator and silently go out of date. I had decided that I needed the glass jar so in spite of the lid being stuck on tight, I couldn't just throw the damn thing away. And after I had been at it for a while, it became a matter of pride and I was not about to let it get the better of me.

I stood over the sink with a knife in my hand and in pure frustration I shoved the knife under the lid of the jar and with a satisfying pop, the lid flew off and bounced against the bottom of the window sill. The jar kind of jolted in different directions and I actually swore out loud as I was splattered with out of date, watery blackberry jam. I watched my nice clean blouse soaked up the liquid and I swore again knowing that one of my favourite tops was going to be ruined. So I did what any ordinary fast thinking female would do in this predicament. I pulled off my top and shoved it under some cold running water. I rinsed it until the marks were just a shadow, then I walked down the hallway in just my bra and skirt and I put the blouse into the washing machine, filled it with a load of whites and turned the machine on. It was about that time that I suddenly remembered the repair man that was in the front room playing with the DVD player in an effort to see why it no longer worked. The doorway to the front room is of course opposite the stairs that I needed to go up to get a new shirt. Without panicking too much, I rummaged around in the laundry and did the best I could to come up with something to cover me.

Now if the repair man thought anything of the woman that went into the kitchen in a blouse, came out of it in a somewhat filthy smelly rugby top three sizes too big for her, then came downstairs in a completely different outfit, he didn't let on, though I know he looked rather surprised to see me in that shirt. I am sure he would have been even more surprised had I forgotten about him completely and walked past him in just my bra. All up I must have been wandering around downstairs for a good ten minutes with out a top.

"He might have given us a discount on the repair!" Mac said when I told Him about it later.
"He might have called the police on me for sexual harassment!" I said.
"Nah," said Mac, "he was male and a Brit. We don't mind a flash of tit now and then."

Somehow I don't think anyone will ask Mac to write a sexual harassment policy any time soon.

Still, I wonder what the repair man would have thought if he knew?