A Person of Interest

This was going to be a totally different blog post from the one it’s ended up being.

I WAS going to talk about how I saw an outfit a bit like this on Pinterest last week, and how it reminded me of the existence of this top and skirt, and that hey, wasn’t I planning to wear them together at some point? And shouldn’t that point be sooner, rather than later, before it gets much too cold for three-quarter length sleeves and fishnet tights?

About the tights:

I was also going to talk a bit about how these were the first tights of the season, but it’s OK, because they’re nude fishnets, and I don’t hate nude fishnets the way I hate opaque, or woollen tights, say. I would probably also have said that I really only wore them because my legs were looking even paler than usual that day, and I thought they could be doing with a bit of coverage, and gosh, wouldn’t you all have been just fascinated by that piece of information?

I was also going to mention this skirt, and how it’s the sister of this one, and one of my favourite items of clothing ever, because you don’t have to wear a petticoat with it: it just sticks out all by itself, isn’t that amazing? I would probably also have said that the photos don’t really do it justice, because it was windy, and the wind kept either blowing the skirt against my legs, or trying to blow it up over my head, and it just totally ruined my life, honestly.

I WAS going to say all of that.

But then, not two minutes after we’d started taking these photos (And I mean LITERALLY not even two minutes…), the police turned up. And told us someone had called them and told them Terry was stalking me, and that they should come round and, you know, investigate us.

And then I died of embarrassment, and just kept on dying, and now I’m writing this from beyond the grave, I’m not even joking.

(I’m totally joking.)

So, yeah. Terry the STALKER, eh? Oh, how mortified we were. And really, it was just so strange. I mean, we were in a public place, and as I said, we’d only been there for a couple of minutes, so whoever it was who called the “incident” in must have picked up the phone more or less the SECOND we arrived. Also, Terry was never any more than a few feet away from me, and was all up in my face with the camera, which I was obviously posing for. It wasn’t like he was hiding in the undergrowth with a telephoto lens, you know?

I have honestly no idea what would make someone think Terry was stalking me, or even that we were up to something suspicious. Obviously outfit blogging isn’t something the majority of people are aware of (and I realise that the sight of someone with a camera is often enough to make The Others stop in their tracks and stand there with their jaws open, regardless of the circumstances. Even at very touristy places like Disney, say, if we stop to take a snap of ourselves in front of the castle, or with Mickey Mouse, or whatever, a small crowd will gather around us, going, “Wait a darn minute, what’s going on HERE? Tourists taking PHOTOS of themselves? Why, I never heard such crazy talk in my life! Y’all from the city or somethin’?”), but even so, last I checked it has yet to be outlawed or anything like that, so… I don’t know. I just know that I was absolutely mortified. MORTIFIED. Even more so than when I flashed a roomful of people that one time. And I don’t think Terry was crazy about being mistaken for a stalker, either. The stalker.

Luckily for us, the police were really nice about it. That’s why I’m here writing this post on t’internets, not carving it onto the wall of my damp cell or something. In fact, I think they were actually pretty amused by it, and, well, you WOULD be, wouldn’t you? They seemed to realise pretty much instantly that we might be a couple of weirdos, but that we weren’t actually doing anything illegal, so they let us go, although not before they’d sat in their car for a few minutes, and, I don’t know, put out an APB or something? What’s it called, again, when they call in your registration number and get someone back at the station to plug it into a database and make sure the car isn’t stolen? Oh yeah: MORTIFYING. That’s what it’s called.

After that we didn’t really feel like taking photos any more. We just slunk off to the restaurant we’d be en route to when we made our ill-advised photo stop (We normally just stop and grab a few photos when we’re on our way out somewhere: we literally just pick somewhere on the way that isn’t too busy and looks like it might make an OK backdrop. We won’t be doing that again.) and I made sure to walk slightly behind Terry on the way in, so no one would think he was following me or anything.

Still, on the plus side, it’s nice to know that someone cared enough about my welfare to call the cops. Thank you, good Samaritan, whoever you are: as embarrassing/confusing as the whole thing was, I’d rather someone trusted their instincts and made the call, rather than just doing nothing. You never know, after all. And it’s reassuring that the police took it seriously enough to come so quickly to the rescue. Stalking is a serious issue, kids! And honestly, Terry really should stop doing it: if I’ve told him once…

All the same, I might just stick to taking pictures indoors from now on. Or, you know, not at all. I don’t want Terry to get a reputation, after all…

P.S. I just don’t understand why anyone would think Terry was a stalker? Seriously, what would make someone think that?

P.P.S. Now that I’ve had some time to think about this, I’m actually starting to think Terry IS stalking me. I mean, I’ve noticed that wherever I go, there he is, you know? In the office? There he is. In the kitchen? There he is. At our friends’ houses? Yup, Terry. I think that good Samaritan might have been on to something…

P.P.P.S. Not that anyone cares, but those are actually black stripes on my top, by the way: for some reason the camera decided to read them as blue. And it goes without saying that I spilled something on it at the restaurant and created a Mark of Death. GOD.