I walked into the finance office at lunchtime today. The two young women who were covering the phones quickly shuffled things and pretended to be working on something together at one of their desks.
"Phew, it's only you" said one of the girls.
"What were you up to?"
"She was showing me photo's of real life lesbians online", said girl number 2.
"I've never met a real lesbian. She was showing me what they look like".
"So you can avoid them?" said I, confused.
"No. I just wanted to know what they looked like. They have bad hair".
Then she piped up again. "I asked her to become a lesbian when her boyfriend ditched her last month" she said, motioning towards girl number one.
"Right. I see". I didn't.
"It's not that I fancy her. But I thought she could find out what they do and that. I mean, they don't have a, well, you know, to do, erm well, you know..."
I felt I understood what she was getting at.
"I wouldn't mind the bad clothes". Said the proposed sapphic sacrifice. "And I was up for it, but my feet don't get on with cheap shoes".
So. Lesbians. It's all about bad hair, bad clothes and cheap shoes.
I think that Portia de Rossi missed that memo.