Swapping shoes - Sue

I love casual, almost hippie like clothes and this is my favourite outfit, if I’m out for a coffee in one of the funky areas of town. A mid calf-length floppy skirt in bright pink with orange splodges and a double layer tee-shirt in orange and white. On my feet, I’d have my everyday-wear orange Birkenstock sandals and my Raban sunglasses would be pushed back over my short spiky hair.

But today, I am being my twin sister. We look exactly alike so we can get away with standing in for each other if tricky situations demand a less passionate position. According to Amanda, she’s had a stand up argument with her garage mechanic who is trying to rip her off on the repairs to her Porsche. I’m off to sort it out.

Amanda has dressed me in her “off to combat the men” gear. She thinks I’m dressed to do battle whereas I feel a complete burke. But let’s see what you think.

Naturally I am in trousers. It’s a cream trouser suit with tight creases and narrow legs and a very fitted jacket that slightly flares from the waist. The trousers narrow to my thickening ankles to reveal strappy, amazingly high heeled, black leather sandals. My short hair is flattened with moose so I look almost bald.
Well here goes. I’m walking, or trying to walk, down to the garage.

I take tiny steps as the trousers refuse to bend at the knee or crease at the groin and the shoes create blisters on the outside of my little toes. In fact my toes feel like squashed tomatoes. It takes half an hour to walk the 500 metres and by the time I get there I am hot, sweaty and sore. I glance at myself as I pass the deli at the corner. Oh my god. My face is like a beetroot, the hair has gone spiky and stiff and my feet look like lumps of puffy dough. The crisply ironed trouser suit looks the same as it did hanging in the wardrobe.

I take a few deep breathes and think of Amanda’s $3000 bill and her beautiful silver Porsche that the garage has refused to let out of its sight. I’m inspired to do battle.

“Hey you. You’re Jones aren’t you?”

“You slimy, good for nothing. I’ll teach you to try and rip me off.”

“Now. Let’s get down to business”.

Poor Mr Jones hasn’t been able to get a word in. I’m on a roll, and I’m on a mission.

“Right, I booked in my Porsche for a 180 km service. You took a week. God what where you doing? Anyway at the end of the week you dish out a bill for $3000. Where the hell did that come from? What? Do you think I’m made of money?”

Mr Jones is trying to speak. His mouth is opening like a sleepy goldfish and is tongue is wobbling up and down. Barely a squeak escapes his narrow mean looking lips.

“I uuum, I don’t ......”

”What do you mean, you don’t know. If you don’t who does? Anyhow I don’t really care about the hows, the whys and the wherefores. Just give me the keys to my car.
Now”

“Now. Do you hear me?”

Vaguely I hear a door slam. Then I hear the familiar roar of the V8 Porsche. There’s a flash of silver. There’s a raucous roar of laughter from Amanda as she and the Porsche disappear down the road. She must have found her spare keys after all.