I make a point of not checking to see if anyone’s watching me this time. Do anything brazenly enough, and the chances are you’ll get away with it.
Instead, I crouch down to pick them up then hold them at arm’s length and take a picture on my phone. A boat sails by and some of the trippers wave and take pictures of me. Well, probably not me. Probably the South Bank complex and the fairground and the aquarium that used to be County Hall. But I’ll be in there somewhere, waving my polka-dotted cotton briefs like a flag, representing Britain.
Once the picture is taken, I send it to Lloyd, then I stuff the knickers and phone into my jacket pocket, sigh heavily and resume my original work.
A text interrupts me.
Well done. You’re on the South Bank?
Yes.
Did anyone see you?
Not sure.
Nobody hovering over your shoulder with propositions?
Not yet.
OK. Next task.
Another one?
Yes. It’s a treasure hunt. I’m sending you all over the city with little tasks to complete. Fun!
Hmm.
Don’t be like that! Next task. Go to Buckingham Palace and flash a sentry.
What? How am I going to get a photo of that?
After you’ve shown him your arse, leave those knickers in his sentry box and take a picture.
I’ll get arrested!
You won’t. They aren’t supposed to react, are they? Go on. Bet it’s been done a million times before.
The light is fading now, the sky an amazing violet grey.
I take a few photographs then I decide to walk the distance between here and Buckingham Palace. If I walk everywhere, perhaps there won’t be so much time for these damned challenges, I reason. Besides, I like walking.
So I head over Westminster Bridge and past Big Ben, chiming the half-hour, through St James’s Park to the Palace.
The Queen is away, according to the flag, which is a faint relief. Don’t want Her Majesty catching a glimpse of anything untoward, after all.
Drawing closer, I notice that the crowds aren’t too thick now. The museum part of the palace has closed for the day and it seems to be mainly people coming off the park and heading into Victoria, passing through rather than stopping.
I take myself to the extreme right side of the pavement, wanting to get a good run up so that my little flash will be a blur of speed that leaves the sentry wondering if it really happened. I compose myself, do a few breathing exercises, like an athlete preparing for a race. I wait for it to get a little darker and the crowd a little thinner. Then, once I have a clear path ahead, I pitch myself at speed towards the gates, weaving between the milling groups of tourists.
At the crucial moment, I perform a balletic quarter turn, flip up the back of my skirt and lean forwards, before completing the full pirouette, the fabric falling back over my bottom.
A couple of squeals and some hysterical laughter follow my onward progress to the far side of the palace. I hide myself around the corner and gasp for breath, once, twice, three times, before part two of my mission.
It has to happen quickly. I take out my phone, put it on camera mode and hold it in front of me, running back through the same crowd, some of whom are still commenting on what they just saw, if they saw it.
They part before me, curious to know what I’m doing.
I stop dead in front of the sentry box, grab the knickers from my pocket and fling them at the feet of the soldier. He doesn’t move a muscle.