I HATE stickers. Sadly, Firstborn and the Small(er) One love them. They love them so much that they will sticker anything. Our house is plastered with stickers. We're knee deep in stickers. Walk across the carpet and you're guaranteed to get at least one stuck between your toes. Sit down and there'll be a sticker somewhere on the sofa. Stickers lurking on lampshades, skirting boards, bedsteads, mirrors, the i-pod. Stickers sneakily stuck on picture frames, toys, books and once, memorably, on the ceiling. But the worst is when the stickers are attached to me.
A few months ago I went in to a fairly important meeting. I had dressed the part, squeezing myself into the black suit that usually hibernates in my wardrobe, a shirt and heels. I think I even brushed my hair that day. All in all, I was feeling pretty damned hot and in a ball-breaking frame of mind. In I went to the meeting and indeed I was sizzling (in the professional sense). The only thing that irked me during the whole thing was the guy sitting opposite who kept staring at my tits. The nerve of this perv, checking out my modest bosoms whilst trying to hammer out a deal. Some men are simply revolting, I thought, stomping away from the meeting. Just can't keep their mind on the job in hand. Neanderthols at the mercy of their urges. Ugh.
It wasn't until I went to the loo an hour or so later that I realised just why this guy had been fascinated by my breasts. Sadly it wasn't due to the hypnotic powers of my pneumatic cleavage (cue sardonic laughter). No. The draw was due to the fact that I had two stickers stuck on my shirt exactly where my nipples would be, like cartoon-emblazoned stripper pasties. The left boob read 'Well done!', the right 'You're great!'. The culprit? Firstborn and her sneaky sleight of hand when giving me a goodbye hug that morning.
I've never lived that one down.