Last night a few friends were going out for drinks in Edinburgh.

I’m not the best at the girl getting ready thing but, with a bit of moral support and husband-help, I tried and rejected numerous outfits. Many of them, in my opinion- and perhaps in Paul’s sensibly silent opinion, made me look like an over-fed hooker (you know the kind – they clearly have enough money to afford chips and pies for breakfast, lunch and dinner, so do they really need to be a woman of the night? I’m just saying, s’all).

There was the heels jeans and dress-which-makes-boobs-look-massive combo, the denim skirt with t-shirt and 3/4 length tights and heels-which-make-me-look-like-me-love-you-loooooong-time, and eventually, the black jeans with heels, spiky belt and t-shirt combo.

I tell you this not because it’s particularly interesting, but because it should highlight the fact that I did not go out wearing a leopard-print mini-skirt, thigh-high PVC boots and duct tape over the nipples. No. I wore what essentially boils down to jeans and a t-shirt.

So why, oh why, did everyone still seem to think I was a hooker?!

Since it would appear that Paul has appalling taste, and no man alive finds me attractive unless they think I’m going to ask for a fiver for my time, I’d like to offer some guidance to one bad man in particular. Mr BigDrunkMan, your youthful ignorance touched my heart. Touched it like a man in a trench coat might touch a small child. By that I mean that it was icky and wrong. So, here’s some advice – don’t say I never do anything for you.

Dear BigDrunkMan:

See when you see a woman alone, head down, arms crossed, clearly sober, and you are with 6 male friends who are all clearly fucked in the brain, there are a list of things you can reasonably say to that woman. It’s a short list.

1) “…” – Nothing. Nothing at all. This would be my preferred choice.

2) “Good evening Miss, hope the morrow finds you well – take care, for rogues abound at this time of night. Would you like a lift on my white steed?” (Steed, I said, STEED)

Not on that list is the following:

“Hey baby, can I see your snatch?”

…

SNATCH?! What? See it? You? NO!

Now. There are numerous things wrong with this question, and it was only the fact that there were 6 of you, and one of me, and no-one knew where I was, and I’m a TinyLittleWoman, and wearing sore shoes, and all those other reasons that you shouldn’t have a go at groups of BigMen at 4.30am on the Bridges on a Saturday, that I didn’t point these out with gusto. You know how normally the perfect come-back comes to you way too late?

This wasn’t one of those times.

It is much harder to bite your tongue and simply give someone the finger and have done with it.

So. Where to start.

BigDrunkMan, that is not the way to impress a laydee.

For starters, what did you think would happen? That I’d look deep into your hazy, weepy eyes, realise what’s been missing in my life, drop trou and say “Behold! My snatch!”? Maybe I’d even offer to let you take pictures, share them with your mates and make some cash on the net, who knows. God loves a try-er I suppose.

And secondly? What would your mother say, hmm? Would she be proud, or would she smack you over the snout with a newspaper and ground you? I would love you get your phone off you, call her and explain your behaviour.

“Hello? Is that BigDrunkMan’s Mum? Yes, this is Mrs Adams, I’m afraid your son has had a less-than-good evening. Yes, yes, he asked to see a woman’s ‘snatch’ again. Hahahaha, I know, such a twat. Thanks, BigDrunkMan’s Mum, I’ll send his behaviour book home with him and we’ll keep in touch. In the meantime, he’s lost 10 minute Golden Time and he’s pretty grumpy about it. No, no, I didn’t castrate him today – I think we’ll leave that for now. Bye, now, bye!”

Furthermore, “snatch” is not an alluring word. What’s wrong with using nice words, hmm? See if you’d said, “Hey babe, let’s see your flower”, maybe I would have been more inclined to let you have a peek.

But no. “Hey babe, let’s see your snatch” was what you went for.

Tut, tut, tut.

Fail.

Yours in eternal disgust,

Mrs Adams