It’s a bit nipply in here.

I am reminded of a particularly cold day a few years ago, back in my old office. It was a windy November morning (or maybe December), and having just biked through a light drizzle I arrived at work absolutely freezing. Fortunately, back in those days I kept a spare change of clothes in the office for just this occasion. I changed into a clean, dry pair of jeans and threw on some new socks, but couldn’t find a shirt. I did, however, have my nice warm heavy sweater draped across the desk, so I stripped out of my wet one and just threw on the sweater. I then killed the A/C to get things a little toasty and watched the grey morning pass by outside.

Several hours later a young lady walks in wearing a tight white shirt and a cute little pink vest. She’s clutching her arms to her chest and shivering and, of course, is here to take a drug test.

The collection passes uneventfully, but just as I’m getting everything packed and sealed she points out, “You know, I can tell you aren’t wearing a shirt under your sweater.”

“That’s okay,” I reply, “I can tell you aren’t wearing a bra under your shirt.”

She turns beet red and leaves as swiftly as possible.

I guess nobody ever taught her it was rude to point.