Winceyette-clad Wonder woman rides...

again.

With feather duster...

far too chilly for feather boa a go, go.

Sheeps wool comes to the rescue, courtesy of one...

Mr Ken Dodd...

a tickling stick by any other name.

Spring cleaning is the name of the game.

Look!  Before my idle blog personae takes a

nose dive into the dust and fluff...

I want you to know...

it is just a passing fancy.

The clean gene will soon die.

The clothes cupboard has been sorted,

all strappy, summery 'little' numbers have been thrown out.
In comes...

Industrial strength Damart, thermal, Eskimo seal-skin suits,

jumpers knitted in virgin wool, complete with nature's little insulation 
in the form of lanolin;

to the uninitiated, that's unwashed sheeps wool, 
We are ready for the heady days of summer.

Crampon clad I cross the courtyard to the utility room
(blue key), to sort out the multitude of cooking paraphernalia.
Out goes the clanking Kenwood Chef...
high and low I've looked for the mincer attachment,
surely I haven't thrown it?
Probably gave it to the Rag and Bone man, who before I could change my mind whipped up his horse and careered down the hill, thinking...
'At least tonight, I won't have to brave the elements clambering on 
a church roof!'

The mixer patiently waits in the garage, ready to be loaded, along with skinny clothes for their journey through the snowy wastes, to the charity shop.

What now to throw?
The huge red wine glasses that happily take a whole bottle of
Chateauneuf du Glug?
'No best keep those; you never know, we could fall off the wagon any day now?'

The many and various sizes of flutes?
'No we might win the lottery?'
Best remember to buy an odd ticket, 
I think the odds of winning are extremely low
if we don't?
I'm quick like that!

Cake tins enough to build a heat shield in case of nuclear attack?
'No, you never know I might have a fit with my leg in the air and
join the WI?'
No chance! 

My knick-knacks are knacked; they don't know it yet, but
the air of austerity is about to blow over, round and through
the old homestead.
Vintage has had its day, as has...
Retro, Kitsch.

The wind of change fills my big pink bloomers,

Hope I havnae keeked my breeks! 

enough to safely sail Sir Francis Drake
around the Horn.

The modern day nod to...
Patchwork...
cutting up perfectly good clothes, cutting them into
shapes and resewing them together to make?
What is that all about?
Ever heard of duvets?
I've had enough eiderdowns to fluff a duck. 

Uber* 

is the way forward...

Pretentiousness in all its forms is

my mantra of how I'm moving on up.

Forget the past and move on.

Looking back in time...
Forget it!
Let's live for today.

* A word I heard and liked, in my little shrinking violet way!