I seem to be very much out the loop of what's fashionable these days, (not that I was ever a regular attendee of the inner circle of said loop,) but yesterday I saw a man in Sainsburys wearing an adult tiger baby gro. It wasn't fancy dress, he was just out buying a few bits for tea in the express aisle. Now, I know they must be comfortable. I often look at Nancy all snug, drunk on milk and in a cosy outfit before bed and think how comfy she must be. But I dont actually think I'll run one off on the sewing machine and hang around Dorothy Perkins in it. What made it look stranger was that Nancy was wearing exactly the same 'Tigger' baby gro, but about a hundred times smaller. I should have got a picture of them together with him holding Nancy up like Mufasa does with Simba at the beginning of The Lion King.
But who am I to judge. I've started to dress like a kids TV presenter. The half decent clothes I've sold on eBay have been slowly replaced with primary colours. Last week I dyed a pair of perfectly good jeans bright yellow. Well I say perfectly good jeans, they were slaggy white jeans which I'm ashamed to say I bought a couple of years ago, and not an overhang from the era when they were actually fashionable circa Bros. But still?
And to complete the z list celebrity CBeeBies image, I've started replacing words from a wide selection of songs with a variation on Nancy P, or Nancy Pster (for raps and stuff.)
A few quick examples:
Oh Nancy P, the pipes the pipes are calling- Danny Boy
Nancy Pster, Nancy P, Nancy P- Summertime by Fresh Prince
Nancy are you OK, say Nancy are you OK, are you OK, Nancy? You've been hit by... you've been struck by... a - Smooth Criminal, Michael Jackson.
I think the dressing and the songs might be the influence of the singing group we've started going to. It's definitely more for me than Nancy as I could sing in her face anywhere, and often do, but collective singing, now that's something else, even if it is just row, row, row your boat.
I imagine we're on stage instead of a community hall. An audience of thousands. Big lights. Pow. The audience are getting restless. And then over the tannoy they announce, 'ladies and gentlemen, can you make some noise for the fantastic, the infamous, the legendary, Nancy Pster and her band.' And me, Nancy, and the rest of baby jam walk/ cool jog onto the stage, waving bashfully and blowing air kisses as we go, and start harmonising to 'if you're happy and you know it.'.
The past/ fantasy/ present clean living life collide at the end of the session when the lady who runs the group puts YMCA on her beat box for the children to dance to, and I realise the last time I properly had a good dance to The Village People was in Revenge nightclub about a hundred years ago while grinding with a dance floor full of hot, half naked, gay men. Oh how times have changed.