It has taken me a week to get round to telling you how the funeral went. This will not turn into a bashing of the service, that seemed to be more about the vicar leading it than the deceased. No, I really can’t be bothered to moan about that too much.
And no, it’s not about the mild food poisoning that I picked up as a result of either a pasty or a lasagna. Nope, not about that at all.
This blog post is about the perverted bastard who thought it was okay to stare at my breasts during the entire service in the crematorium. One of the few times I wear something undeniably feminine i.e. a dress, and I have to put up with some wanker staring at my boobs.
I wanted to slap him, but decided not to as the deceased and their family deserved not to have the service brought to a halt whilst I physically and verbally abused the man sat next to me. So I held off, and then complained to Paul and his family about the mental undressing I had suffered during the service.
I can just about cope with the notion that men other than Paul may find me attractive and may wish to look at my body. However, what I cannot abide is when someone decides to keep sneakily looking at my breasts during a FUNERAL SERVICE! That is beyond not cool.
How do I know he was looking at them? I caught him out of the corner of my left eye as he kept allowing his stare to settle on them.
Social etiquette tip:
Do not stare at fun bags during funerals. It’s an entirely inappropriate thing to do in that situation. Save it for the beach.