I freely admit to being the kind of person who peers up at the ceiling tiles suspiciously; convinced that beings lurk behind them, snooping down at me in my semi-clad state.
I don't tend to linger in these places. Indeed I try to be as quick as possible, not least because the less time spent in front of a mirror in my undies the better.
But apparently, I was not quite quick enough. As I teetered around on one leg trying on a (rather fetching) grey dress, I was struck by the business end of a Henry Hoover.And I do mean struck. Physically.
I hopped out of the way, as best I could in the confined space of the cubicle. Perhaps the cleaner thinks this cubicle is empty, I mused, so - being English - I gave out a dainty, ‘Ooop!’ by way of a signal.
However, this served only to fire Henry’s ardour - and he thrust further in.Splammed up against the far wall (for fear of another nasty nip to the ankles) I changed as rapidly as I could back into my own clothes. I gathered my belongings and wrenched open the cubicle door - fully expecting to see an embarrassed looking cleaning operative.
But there was none.Just Henry Hoover.
Red-faced, admittedly - but with a rather saucy glint in his eye....