Confessions f of a petrol pump attendant.

Byline: By Lisa Marshall

Wednesday

I stumble out of bed and stand in the shower while thinking of my birthday that is fast approaching. I contemplate my life: I'm going through a divorce, living back with my parents, working nine till five in an office as well as trying to scrape together enough money to get my own place by working three shifts a week at a lousy petrol station. As if that wasn't enough, I turn 30 next week.

I turn up at the office feeling sorry for myself and Vicki tries to console me by saying: "At least you' ve got nice teeth". Things must be looking really bleak if my gnashers are all she can compliment me on. Lucy thinks a cup of tea will make everything all right. She would. She's 23, looks like J-Lo and is in a happy relationship.

At lunchtime, the three of us wander to the shops and Lucy drags us into La Senza. Go on Luce, rub it in. She's buying sexy lingerie, while I have about as much need for it as a chocolate fireguard. We stand for a while and discuss the new `boxer shorts for women' and I decide to buy a pair. Vicki claims they're really comfortable and all the rage. I feel marginally better that I've now got nice pants as well as nice teeth.

Thursday

I'm wearing my new pants. And they are the most uncomfortable things I have ever bought in my life. I swear at Vicki as she walks in the office. She can't understand it. I must have a different shaped bum to everyone else, she says. Oh, great.

By lunchtime I can stand it no more and I nip out to buy some new knickers that I quickly change into in the toilets at work. I fold up my boxer shorts and pop them in my bag.

After work I go to the bank to discover I haven't managed to save anywhere near enough for a deposit on a tent, never mind a two-bed semi. Stuff this. I've had enough of slogging my guts out for a pittance. I phone the manager of the petrol station and hand in my notice. There's got to be more to life than this.

And there is. I thought I had kicked the habit. Whenever I felt a surge of temptation, I would ring a friend, go for a jog, or busy myself with some housework. But once an addict, always an addict and I have fallen off the wagon.

I am standing in the midst of the cosmetic counters at Boots. I confess, I'm a shopaholic. Clothes are always tempting but cosmetics are my biggest downfall. Lets face it, the pathetic amount I have saved over the past couple of months can't even touch on a deposit for a house but it CAN buy me a couple of blissful hours at the MetroCentre.

I wander from counter to counter, making use of their testers before selecting the items of my choice. I'm 30 in four days but the less said about that the better (I feel it is nothing to celebrate and have sworn I will break the limbs of anyone who sends me a card with three zero on it). So I figure I really need to invest in a good anti-wrinkle cream and I opt for an age-reversal serum. I only hope it doesn't make me look 92 instead of 29.

I go home, laden with bags, feeling so much better. Most of my purchases I'll probably wear once and abandon because it's not my shade or the "illuminating particles" do nothing for my T zone. (Girls, you'll know exactly what I mean.)

I root around in my bag for my mobile and remember that I need to remove my boxer shorts from my bag. I carry so much rubbish around that I can never find anything I'm looking for. I start rummaging around. But I just can't locate them. I empty my bag of its belongings. And the shorts aren't there. My bag is black and the shorts were black. perhaps they've just camouflaged themselves. I scrape my fingers against the lining of my empty bag. Nothing. I can only assume that in the midst of my shopping frenzy (when I was dropping my bag at my heels at every counter) that my pants fell out at some point!!

Health Warning: The size of Lisa's pants may cause shock to the heart. If you are the finder of said item, please accept her profuse apologies on the possible damage to your health. It was not intentional.