"What?" gasped the Cow. She removed the offending item from underneath her coat and held it up to the light.
"Nipple pink??" she spluttered. "Wherever did you see a nipple this colour?"
Mr Timberland blushed slightly and muttered about a lifetime of many nipples, about backstage at the Lido, about confidentiality, and dived back into his office.
"Gmf!" harrumphed the Cow, unimpressed. Even a rainbow nation of nipples, she suspected, would fail to deliver specimens of the colour under discussion. Even beta-carotene overdoses. Even, she suspected, flame-haired people, who'd been markedly absent from her own experience.
"There's always the internet?" suggested Gramsci. "But you'll need to set Safe Search to off, or Google might not deliver the lurid spectrum you want."
"Hmm..." mused the Cow. "Not sure that will work - if the semiotic web relies on tagging, and people can't even agree as to what constitutes a nipple!"
"Then again," chuckled Gramsci, holding up the Cow's hotwater bottle. "Take a closer look. Doesn't the pixellated texture remind you of something?"
Of course! It struck the Cow forcibly between the eyes. Mr Timberland had gotten his idea of what nipples looked like from - the Page 3 Girls in the Daily Vice!
"Sad," she sighed. "Some people really do need to get out more."
Is this nipple pink?