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Saturday, 20 May 2017

In which Wallis is back...

With a moment or two to while away yesterday, I trawled through the tranches of photographs online of that Pippa Middleton sort and the delicate looking, chinless 'Banker' she was plighting troths with.

What grabbed One's attention were the seemingly endless hoardes of Hooray Henrys and Henriettas done up like ninepenny dinners.

With a supposed bottomless pit of clothing allowance to dip into the blighters looked positively ghastly in the main.

Tottering by in their Manolos that very likely cost more than six month's care-worker salary, with their dimpled knees peeking out from below a disastrous, designer frock, flashing their china teeth for the masses, it makes One stamp One's tiny foot in frustration that I've left me Kalashnikov in me other handbag.

After all, one can forgive bad taste, but no taste at all?  That cannot be excused.

Not that I begrudge the upper classes their share of happiness, oh no, I'm all for the pursuit of love, even though it's always been just out of my reach.

It just looks so much more satisfying and easier to grasp against a backdrop of inheritance and trust funds and more than enough spons to get yer teeth done.

AND the overriding pictorial memory of the day was that rather plain looking Pippa sort. Didn't she have a ghostly resemblance to that style icon cadava, Wallis Simpson?

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