And it was the style of cheomsang that I gather is standard these days: the slinky, figure hugging, Shanghai-style cheomsang, with a slit up either side. It looked magnificent on the mannequin; heaven knows what it would look like on a person. This was true style. No ugly cleavage here, just an infrequent hint of upper leg on the outside only.
Well, readers of longstanding will know of my fixation with the cheomsang. I stood and stared at it for several minutes, then studied it closely from every angle.
‘Where d’you get the cheomsang?’ I asked the serving wench.
‘The cheomsang. That, there.’
‘Oh, the Chinese dress. Dunno. It came in a bundle of donations.’
I looked at the price tag. £5.95. Imagine that: £5.95 for something of such class. I thought of buying it to give to Ms Wong, but it was large size and Ms Wong is rather petite. I thought of buying it anyway and hanging it in my bathroom, so that somebody might ask ‘Who the hell does that belong to?’ and I could answer ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ But nobody with such depth of interest in my associates ever visits my bathroom, so I didn’t.