Thursday, 30 May 2013

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... 



  1. reading this, clad in 3 layers of cashmere- does that make me a triple dinosaur?

  2. I guess I am a podgy dinosaur in my silk top and jumper.

  3. It's the natural fibres that work their magic. No polyesters died in making our clothes.


  4. I love the thought of you in your linen layers with your biker boots, still a rebel at heart methinks! Don't own a jumper - I love a floaty cardigan to layer. x

  5. With arithric thumb I need help to don the biker boots... then as if by magic, I metamorphosise into Sid Snot. The floaty layers hide a multitude of spray cans, Special Brew, and rolly-ownies with herbal fillings! Commuters locked in their world of sardine travel, peer out of stuffed carriages as at the mercy of signals, they patiently wait... for the end of the world, otherwise known as work. Me I'm happy as the track-side rebel without a cause... well just one... to make you stop and think!

    'Graffiti rhymes wif Nefertiti dunnit?' Sniff!