Picture the scene: Sunny Paris, 7pm, fancy cars-packed avenue, men bored in their Jags & Porsches on the left and Le Jardin des Tuileries on the right… A woman is happily – although a tad primly – making her way to the last-of-the-season-posh-wine-tasting-event-she-organised wearing her favourite little black dress, clicking her heels on the pavement and carrying a trench folded on her arm. She is engrossed in a book she’s reading, somehow slaloming her way through the tourists, obviously oblivious to the environment.
All the sudden, she feels a strong gush of air lifting up her dress. Oh my God, her derrière is à l’air! Trying to escape the Marilyn-esque situation, she pulls her dress down, looses her page marker, drops her handbag and… trying to walk away, realises her left heel is stuck in the subway grating she distractedly walked over: On a desperate attempt to run away before shame catches up with her, she had lost a shoe and her dignity. The urge to leave is stronger by the second now and she limps back to the grid, bends over, tries to unstuck the reluctant shoe out and to put it back on without loosing her balance or showing her derrière, again.
A couple of cars have started to horn to express their enthusiasm at the sight of the unexpected show and passersby have stopped to watch, ready to attend a fall. She stumbles but doesn’t fall, looks like she is going to cry but bursts out of laughter and leaves the scene of the crime as dignified as possible.
The woman, you understood, was me and she’s still giggling!