Nah yeah: Having someone tell me “I like your top,”.

Yeah nah: That “top” was actually a dress. I suppose when you catch yourself saying something like “yeah, this is a cheeky Supre number,”, you’re already confirming that you probably shouldn’t be wearing said “top” as a dress in public.

It doesn’t matter if a trashy clothing chain marketed that flammable piece of fabric to you as appropriately-lengthed to adequately cover enough front and back bum to maintain a certain level of esteem in the public sphere – that’s a charade you’re supposed to be able to see right through after you’ve got two decades and the odd university degree under your belt.  Somewhere along the line you’re suppose to pick up on whether a four-year-old dress you used to wear in college is exposing so much leg it’s cruising right through upper-thigh territory and on the cusp of arse cheek terrain.

I have business cards for goodness sake.