Misunderstandings

Following a light lunch of tuna sandwiches on the hoof I met with Tony Mc. We'd arranged a rendez vous at the Bishop's Stink, an aptly named pub within spitting distance of his sister's house. (Spit being the operative word here, roadside phlegm and graffiti are abundant at her end of town). To divert any possible mugging I dressed down for the occasion, threadbare cords, ill fitting knitted cardigan and a stained thermal vest. I was just about to set off when I received a call from Tony, he was outside my flat. Apparently the pub had been closed down on instruction of the police and Tony thought it best to bring his sister and Mrs N (yes he's back with the sinister sister of crochet) over to my place. I answered the door to be met by Tony and the most stunningly beautiful woman in the world (rest assured I am not talking about the evil seamstress Mrs N). Tony's sister is wonderful! If ever angels existed she would be one, maybe Dianne was right after all.

Embarrassment all round as I explained my attire, then realising I made a complete faux pas referring to her neighbourhood as a crime ridden hell hole. She deflected my comments with a smiling 'ooh its not that bad' and a request for tea. As the ladies made themselves comfortable in the lounge Tony came into the kitchen to give me my post (my ex-wife now gives any un-redirected post to Mrs N who then passes it to Tony to give to me). As I flicked through the junk mail I came across a magazine wrapped in clear sellophane, inside in large letters was the magazine's title 'Simply Cynthia, for Gentlemen Who Prefer Ladies Shoes'. A joke, surely. I followed Tony into the lounge.
Barely able to contain his mirth he said 'We picked these up for you on our way over.' and handed me a pair of American Tan tights in XXL as the room erupted in laughter. Surely they don't think I subscribe to such a publication?