Normally I'm a morning person. You may have noticed the time stamps on my posts are generally early. It's when I do my best thinking.
But some mornings? Some, I'm just not quite there. This morning I get up, pull on a skirt and shirt. Button the shirt, starting, as is my habit, in the middle. (Women readers of a certain upper voluptuity will likely recognize this manoeuvre: you start at the breasts so the rest of the shirt falls properly.) Then down to the bottom, then the button or two above the middle where I started. It may seem unnecessarily complicated to you, but I've done it this way for about three decades (like, since I got breasts), and it works just fine.
"Hey, mum," says Emma from across the breakfast table, as Arthur, first child to arrive, plays at our feet. "You're flashing the planet."
I look down. Seems, in my atypical morning muddle-headedness, I got distracted partway through the proceedings. (Distraction during the rest of the day, well, given that I work with a half-dozen toddlers, could it be otherwise?) I'm buttoned from the middle down, but not from there up, resulting in a generous display of flesh and an indiscreet, though not unappealing, sweep of rose and chocolate lace.
Which would account for Arthur's dad's odd behaviour at the door this morning...