What to do next for badness...

Lettice and I are home alone.

Ted is out doing good for the community.

This morning taking a lady to East Grinstead Hospital,

this afternoon off to Tenterden emptying

the Kent Air Ambulance boxes.

In the dust-draped quiet I sit and blog...

is this what my life has come too?

Jumper-clad June approaches.

I, with every fibre of my being hate donning jumpers.

With podge-bod, you would wouldn't you?

I need silk to skim, linen to layer,

dresses to float.

Camouflage by any other name would look as sweet?

Jumpers are apparel for dinosaurs to don at the dawn

of the ice age.

My clothes are my armour,

my boudicca blades I sheathe in slub silk, fine lawn

and gossamer woven Irish linen.

Hairy, hoary hemp has no place here.

My Achilles heel is clad in biker boots. 

Cutting a swathe through the crowds,

it's the women that give an admiring glance.

Gone are the days, when men walked into lamp posts as I passed.

(That is probably the biggest, fattest, stonkingest fib I've ever told here!)

I wouldn't mind, but today's a fasting day, so I can't even console myself with

the odd pasty, pork pie or scotch egg.

I doubly wouldn't mind, if this fasting lark was working!

I feel I'm growing old...
I'm beginning to feel the cold!

Err... Mr YP how do I now un-pixelate my wrinkles?
Done it... 

☺☹☺