Dear Morbidly Obese Lady who works at the swimwear section in Myer,
I just wanted to thank you for a memorable experience the other day. If bikini shopping isn't humiliating enough your deplorable customer service skills made it even more unbearable. I'm so sorry I want to shop at your store and spend my money on your goods, I didn't realise this was such an inconvenience. I know you would rather be eating a kebab or rolling around in grease instead of serving me but there's no need to treat me like a disproportionate leper who can't count.
HER (in a very shouty manner): How many swimmers 'ya got there?
ME (in a very apologetic manner): Umm three, and sorry what's the limit so I know for next time?
HER (even more shouty): FIVE!
~ I make three more trips to the change rooms and every time she summons me over like a naughty child trying to break the rules and demands I show her how many swimmers I have. Thanks Mrs Kebab, I can count you know. ~
I am so sorry that I may be popping in and out of the change rooms a few times but this isn't my fault. You see, all the pretty swimmers with patterns and colour and prints aren't designed for girls with boobs. Instead, we are second class citizens and have to choose from the bland, ugly seperates.
Anyway, thanks so much for all your help and I finally found some swimmers. From David Jones in fact.
Yours sincerly, The Girl You Think Can't Count to Five.