Oh dear lord, please don't let it be ...

It was a cold and bitter night. I had been working late. I had been feeling poorly. I had run out of milk.
All these things had troubled me, made me careless... but it was Footeater's poetry that finally sent me over the edge like a lemming on a skateboard.
'Weeelll helluuuu there!'
It had to happen. I had been busted. My cover blown.
Years of having a street face now lay in tatters. Years of being oh so careful, of moisterising and plucking, of preening and perking. Years of brushing my hair and keeping it neat, years of wearing heels and fitted coats and matching scarves and hat. Years of tailered pants and high heeled sandels, years of long leather boots, Wolford tights and velvet, years of earrings, eyebrows pencils, chockers, diamonds, watches, expensive handbags and casuals that were not casual at all, years of never really being caught looking like I had fallen backwards through a privot hedge into a chicken farm before rolling down a grassy hill and into a sillage mound while suffering froom the pox had suddenly and ruthlessly been blown sky high
I had been so careful. I had perfected the street look. Not for me the greasy hair pulled into a scrunchy, not for me the juicy tracksuit and over sized runers, the tattered jeans and round neck jumpers or quilted jackets.
I knew no one other than photoshopped models could really pull off the 'just out of bed look,' I knew brushed hair always topped not brushed. I knew a light dusting of powder prevented nose shine.
Why am I telling you all this?
Because after years of careful grooming, last night I let the side down so spectacularly I might as well go now and live in Nenagh. Sheeeet, maybe even Dunboyne.
Last night I outed myself...as a secret fleece wearer.
There are some people in life who criss cross your social circle. They are not your friends indeed they seem to have no friends of their own, and yet you always know them. Everyone knows them. And worse, they know everyone else.
Scary Mary and the Slimy Andy. Two bloated prigish gossipy old whores, hairdressers, mahogany, primped, preened and vicious. Oh how I dispise them.
But as a goodly number of my friends are gay I have developed the 'moawmoaw' chops necessary to navigate the fatmammcat boat through vicious snipy overly tanned oil slicked waters, and one of these ways is to never get caught with your guard down.
If they smell blood they will attack.
And I never do...except for last night.
LIke I said, I had read Footeater's poem. I had laughed a little. Then- feeling dirty and unclean-I had a shower. Not long afterwards, feeling sufficiently recovered I decided to make hot chocolate, only to discover Puddy had-inexplicibly-drank all the milk.
A quandry, but so shaken was I from my earlier reading, I threw caution to the wind and this is where my nightmare became reality.
My hair was damp ergo curly-ish, terrified of 'catching my death' I plonked a striped wollen hat over it. I was wearing pink fleecy booties and grey and pink fleecy jammies...there were rabbits on the jammies, I had the paramour's overcoat over the whole ensemble and I was make up free. I also had streaming eyes, a runny red nose and chapped lips.
I left my house like this to 'nip' down the road. After all, I reasoned, the shop is near by and it was unlikely I was going to meet someone at this hour.
I should have known better, I should have changed. I am an idiot.
'Wellll hellluuuu there!"
Three of the evilest most foul words in the English language.
'Hello.'
'Moaw Moaw.'
'We thought it was you. How are you?'
'oh fine fine.'
'Are you...going out?' This is accompanied by disbelieving looks and snickering delight as Slimy Andy bends down and peers at the one of my rabbits. He is looking at the happy one, the one dancing with a carrot.
I am bereft.
'Hahah, no I"m a bit sick actually.'
''You do look a little...under the weather.' Scary Mary smiles and a thousand volts of white teeth blinds me, hiding the gleeful expression on his mahogony/crypt keeper face.
'I have a bit of a head cold actually.'
'Oh poor thing.' Slimy Andy straightens up. He and Scary Mary exchange a glance and take a step back. They don't do headcolds, it isn't in the bitchy queeny hairdressers list of aggreed upon illnesses. Too common and unexotic.
"Well I'd better get going.' I say, waving the milk feebly.
'Oh don't let us keep you from...'
'Making hot chocolate.'
'Right.'
I lean in for a moaw, but the look of sheer horror on Slimy Andy's perma tan tree bark reminds me.
'Oh right, the cold.'
'Well, can't be too careful. Toodleloo Darling.'
'Bye.'
I am fucked. Do you hear me, totally fucked. You can be sure news of my bunnies are all over the place. French gay will dine out on this one for years. Stupid colds.
And yes it is MUCH worse today.