I’m worried about our
Sal. I don’t like to put it out
there large but she’s not been the same since she returned from a Saga 50+
sojourn in some exotic location.
Far be it from me to put two and two together and come up with an answer
of fifty but, since her zingful return from Lanzarote, she has developed a
notable penchant for grey. That’s
right, she’s gone all grey on us.
Back she bounded on the
golf course, full of zip and zest and promptly issued us with belated Christmas
presents. We were given a hat
each. Warm, cosy, over the ears, woolly and grey. They are even bedecked with jazzy
jewels. Beautiful.
As I think I’m a bit of
a gem myself and I know a diamond geezer vintage golfer (VG) to boot, I asked
him about pale grey on me. I
wasn’t really sure it suited my colours and Cousin Sondra had gone to great
lengths to ensure my harmonious colours were up to par on every occasion. His reply left me in no doubt: he was
sure I’d look great in grey every time – even classy! Maybe he should have gone to SpecSavers first, or had a word
with Sondra about my need for blue, but a compliment is a compliment and I
decided to bask in it and worry about his eyesight and fashion sense
later. Grey it is then.
I have no objection to
wearing a great hat. In fact, I
have a sterling collection of them but only one silly head to wear them
on. I mentioned this once to VG
and he was profuse in his swift reply of agreement. I am sure this is not gallant behaviour but, as he’s
recently had a milestone birthday and is beginning to show the tetchiness that
comes with age, I have decided to ignore these idiosyncrasies. I was out on the course with my
bejewelled grey hat on display.
All should have been well at this point but then I discovered Sally’s
agenda or, to be precise, her shopping list.
Right about now it’s
time to introduce you to the late, great James Foley. Long before Stephen Hawking, Jimmy devised the Theory of
Everything and, like the outcome of the great professor’s theory, it really
amounted to nothing at all. Sorry,
dad, to diss you in so public a manner but at least I have bracketed you with
the best brains of our times. Be
grateful. My dad coached me well
in thin edges and wedges. Of
course, he never played golf or held a club in his hand. Rather, his discourse
was all about that old chestnut “the thin edge of the wedge” and Jimmy had a
prophetic feeling that his youngest daughter might develop a penchant for
finding thin edged wedges and following them to crises point. He wasn’t far wrong there but he had my
best interests at heart, bless his cotton socks…and so he taught me well on how
to spot a thin edged wedge at a hundred and fifty yards. It’s just a pity I can’t apply the same
distance to my shots.
And that’s exactly what
Sally’s gifted hats were. Sally
was bent on arming us with all things grey: socks, scarves, gloves, fleeces,
trousers – and I could only marvel at her generosity in providing all this girl-power
grey. I was up for it until I
spotted “Lingerie”. Nothing wrong
with a bit of grey underwear, you might say, and I would be the first to
applaud a sliver of silver- grey raw silk next to my skin – though I have to
confess it’s mainly Bridget Jones’ black “Sensibles” in deepest winter – but
come the summer of scorching skorts, I’m up for it. It was then I remembered the label on the hats: brand
F&F from You-Know-Where. Oh
yes, every little helps!
And that “Every little
helps” has a fifty shades of grey underwear range. Now, call me a snob if you will but before you do, pay a
visit to your nearest Tesco and tell me that that fifty shades range wasn’t
designed by an Ann Summers dropout designer on crack cocaine with a fetish for
faux leather and tawdry satin. I
shudder at the thoughts.
It’s time I had a word
with Gill. We need to head up a
Rebuttal Committee; otherwise, our butts might be clad in fifty shades of
F&F. I think a set of
protocols, pathways and the obligatory flow chart might keep the saga of Sally
contained for a while - till the winter sales are over. Meanwhile, there is one shade of grey
Gill and I will need to indulge in while we’re on the committee. A few fingers of Grey Goose won’t go
amiss.
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