So I'm in the hairdresser - in Manchester. I know, I've been away longer than I ever lived here, but he's a great hairdresser, if a little tardy - and I point out to him one of his assistants who's wearing hip-slung combatesque trousers that are about two sizes too tight, and a short red t-shirt that shows about three inches flesh-gap, and it's hanging over the edge.
We laugh. Quietly.
"That's the third boob," he says to me. Makes me think of a line in a Woody Allen routine, "the the third rail is underfoot" but no amount of googling will it bring it to me.
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