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The lady is a tramp

Sarah Leeves long jumps across the fine line between 'class' and 'slut'

Sarah Leeves

Fri, 02 Nov 2012 16:50:17 GMT | Updated 4 years today

I have a fashion confession: I've spent a majority of the last six years in a tracksuit. No, I'm not part of a gang, nor am I an Olympic athlete… yet. My job involves a lot of sports coaching, running around and playing spaceships with children; a tracksuit is practical. The obvious disadvantage is that it's not overly flattering. The baggy trousers and bright orange t-shirt (no joke) do not scream sex goddess. The uniform is comfortable but I feel invisible. But who am I going to meet at work anyway?


When a Friday night comes, though, I pull off my tracksuit, blare out Kate Bush and get ready to play. I enjoy dressing well; it makes me feel good, like a lady (despite the fact I'll end up with kebab on my face and wake up £70 lighter).


Now, I'm not blowing my own trumpet but I look banging in a pair of heels. I get a lot of male attention, which is good for banter but little else. It's great when Mr. Suit walks up, drink in hand and says "Hey babe, how do you like your eggs in the morning?" I smile, take a sip of my drink and reply "Unfertilised thanks". Winner.


Incidentally, I know I'm no fashionista, but I do question some people's outfit choices. There are tops made of string, belts fashioned as skirts, and leggings that look like a child's gone mad with a Spirograph set and some Crayola pencils. I would also comment on people's tans, but I look like a TOWIE reject most of the time - my orange hands and feet would rival those of a tiger - so who am I to judge?


Back to Friday night, though. Me and the girls are doing it gangnam style on the floor; the vodka is flowing, the armpits are sweating and the room is blurry. But it's OK, we're having a good time and the night has only just begun. Next thing I know, I awake in *my own* bed. How the hell did I get here? I stumble to the bathroom mirror and my hair looks like someone had a party in it. And, of course, the Facebook notifications start… "Best Friend has tagged you in 24 horrific drunken photos." Great. They are like a flipbook of how a group of girls gradually descended into the gutter.


The Saturday Hangover Club involves bacon sandwiches, tea and repeats of Come Dine With Me. Inevitably, the questions start. "Do you remember downing that dirty pint?" No. "Who was that girl you snogged?" Don't know. "Remember dancing on the bar?" No! "It was great when you called her a slutty bitch." Who? "Your ex." Oh God.


The dictionary definition of 'lady' is "a woman who is refined, polite and well spoken" and that is blates me until about 8.30pm every Friday… and Saturday… and every other Sunday. A loose colloquial definition of 'tramp' is "a promiscuous woman (see also 'slut')" and I'd say that sums up my dance moves after a bottle of wine, three double vodkas, five sambuccas and half a shandy; always a responsible drinker.


So I am a lady-like tramp, who is sick in a bush and argues with taxi drivers, but do you know what? I'm happy. Well, I'm happy until my fake tan sweats off, then I look like a patchwork blanket. I don't know why I'm single.



Follow Sarah on Twitter @sleevsie22

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