clad in Jaeger tartan trews and cashmere jumper:
my eyes like Exocet missiles locked onto her orange face.
Iron grey helmet hair, brown bod, thick pan stick foundation
clinging for grim death into every crack and crevice.
Mesmerised was I by the only curly hair on her head,
which sadly, resided on her chin.
Not a word of chat found their way into my brain,
as with every word the long hair jiggled and wiggled.
How I stopped myself from leaning across and with finger and thumb
plucking out the offending item.
Did she know, was she proud, did she care?
On arrival home, my stout legs thundered up to my cyber-eyrie;
with the full glare through the window in my MOD strength magnifying mirror.
I inspected my visog.
Relief washed over me...
If you meet me and you see an escapee
from my rigid plucking regime making a dash for freedom,
please what ever you do, don't be shy, draw my attention
to the offending item.
I will be eternally grateful.