It’s that time of life thing
As the vicissitudes of encroaching senility gradually creep up behind me I am also conscious that not-dissimilar is happening to those close at hand.
Given my past history of occasional mishaps with my attire – cue a reference to those unfortunate times when I have exposed myself to Mrs Patel when collecting my morning newspapers across the road as a result of inadvertently leaving my fly zip at half-mast or below – for the past couple of years, before going out in public, I have been routinely required to present myself for inspection beforehand by a lady of my acquaintance in order to prevent any repeat.
Said lady has an intense and colourful imagination and – unlike your author – can always recall her dreams in great detail.
I pass no comment here about her character or principles, but it would be fair to mention that not infrequently the night-time escapades she embarks upon in her head involve intimate flirtations and/or even liaisons that she has had with well-known public figures and/or celebrities.
The extent and horrific nature of this phenomenon reached an unusual height during the dark days of the Tory/Lib-Dem coalition Government when one morning – if Rusters can imagine the scene – over my cornflakes followed by poached eggs on toast accompanying my read of The Daily Telegraph Letters page, I was forced to listen to her vivid account of her overnight bout of ‘horizontal jogging’ with the then Premier David Cameron.
It gives me no pleasure this morning to record that yesterday, at the breakfast table, I was subjected to a detailed description of her unexpected but as it happened not entirely unwelcome Sapphic encounter with the female co-presenter of a terrestrial broadcaster’s early morning television show.
I put it down to ‘Lockdown madness’, now that we are eight weeks in and counting …
