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Monday, 9 February 2015

In which One has gone all Sylvia Sims...

There is something inordinately comforting about being sired by a gentleman wearing a fine leather shoe (or two)
The A of the F, who has proven to be a stylish cove, even whilst ackled up in his 'leisure garments' as he insists on calling them (or Jim jams, which is what they actually are) in repose, still manages to assume an air of quiet elegance.
Why, just last Saturday, he sported a pair of hand tooled brouges that wouldn't have been out of plates* on HRH the Prince of Wales, even though worn in combo with denim trouserage and a Tescos Finest casual, upper garment.
The 'Blakeys' sparked reassuringly against the cobbles as One scampered along at his side, in me Uggs, all the way down the hill to the village hall.
Eschewing the current trends of a throw away society, the A of the F is shod in a sufficiency of quality that renders the requirement for soling and heeling at regular intervals. This, to One, is as sensual and seductive as a knicker-ripping Chippendale is to the less discerning, Lambrusco lashed lush.
The accompanying shine is such that should the A of the F' s toes stray twist One's thighs (when we are in a vertical stance) he is afforded a perfect looking-glass view of One's Gokked-up gusset.
If only One were still such a vision of elegant loveliness, but having just caught One's reflection, on the way to get the A of the F a bone China cup of Earl Grey, tis a sad fact that One has gone all 'Sylvia Sims.'

* plates of meat - feet
Cockney rhyming slang, Michael


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