at the bottom

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Tonight I shall dream of bottoms. And leggings. This morning's eyeful was courtesy of a bicyclist in cheap black leggings. I can inform you that she was wearing a tiny pair of black knickers, barely more than a bit of string. This evening I was treated to the very saggy, un-toned and bouncy bottom of a young {surprisingly slim} lady, her maroon leggings clinging tightly to every mound of cellulite. I don't have anything against bottoms. My own bottom is not worthy of a pair of leggings without a pretty tunic or dress to cover it up, but I'd like it if other people would kindly extend me the same respect and not shove their bottoms in my face. Oh, and the young chavster chatting to the old Irish drunkard at the bus stop? His exact words were, I'd stick it up her bottom, when a pretty girl walked past. What. The. Fandangly. I wanted to ask him if he actually thought he could pull such a pretty girl in the first place, but he is a tad scary, in a bewildering innocently backwards way. There's life Jim, but not as we know it! Ho-hum.