After witnessing another fine specimen of the Beziers population, I have finally decided to devote an entire blog post to the "catastrophes de Beziers".
Last Wednesday, my friend Colleen, our new French friend Sylvain, and I were at O'Sullivans pub for the weekly quiz night. We won by the way, though we do have to think of a better team name. Any suggestions?
Anyway, at about 10:30pm or so a woman entered the pub. I'd guess she was in her mid to late 60s, but who knows; some French women don't age gracefully at all, and a woman going into a bar already half in the bag a few hours shy of midnight probably hasn't been too easy on herself. Her face was rather pretty though, think Dame Judi Dench a la As Time Goes By. Unfortunately, she was rather plump and ample chested - which leads us to her biggest problem that evening.
She was resting on a stool just a few feet from our table, and as she took off her coat, I could have sworn I saw a flash of nipple. I couldn't be sure as she sat with her back to us for a bit after that, but as she turned back our way, I was, unfortunately, quite sure of what I had seen. She was wearing a sheer-ish hip length leopard print blouse, but under that, she was sporting a very low cut, black, lacy bustier-type top. and she was, without mincing words, 'busting out all over'. To say that I saw nipple would be a stretch I suppose, but a good few centimeters of areoles were present at all times. This attracted the attention and glances of more than one man at the bar, and in her favor, most of them were over 40. I still don't know if she realized, but I'm guessing she just didn't care. She was even joined by a gal pal a bit later, who apparently said nothing - to which Colleen leaned over and whispered, "I'd be a better friend than that. I'd definitely let you know if your nipples were hanging out." Thanks Colleen! but let's pray it never comes to that.
Our very own 'nipplegate' and her wardrobe malfunction stayed at the bar for as long as we did, - until midnight, and managed to chow down two plates of bar food (the smoked salmon plate and the good ole fried stuff plate) with her friend. There was no escaping the sight, as she was sitting directly in front of me, and I still don't know which part was worse - the ever present areoles, or watching her stuff her face with her chubby, be-ringed fingers, complete with long claw like fake nails. Whatever it was, it was too much. just too much. At least it makes for good blogging!
I post more updates on the 'catastrophes de Beziers' as they come up. And don't worry, they're never few and far between.
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