A Gift of Anything

Money and gifts aren't everything, I know, but boy do I wish I had some right now. I spend my days (in between the drudgery of work) looking at www.figleaves.com and www.lovehoney.com and dreaming of all the beautiful and bad things I could own. As a woman in want of a good man, I suppose I ought to be making great efforts to be glamorous and sexy and chic. Well, if I could I would, but right now all I have are two pairs of trousers that fit (one hem loose, one bottoms torn), one pair of nice boots (agony) and my beloved trainers are leaking water faster than the titanic. My one swimming cozzie (a proper old timer) - an essential item for the not-getting-totally-fat regime - is losing elastic at a rate of knots, and is starting to sag in a most unflattering fashion. Don't even get me started on the supposed "secret support". It may still be secret, but fucking support it doesn't. My pants all seem to have turned one slightly indeterminate and turgid colour in the wash. The only thing left in my wardrobe that could be declared even slightly "hot" is my cute lacy pink and black bra and pants set, which I haven't yet managed to destroy in the cleaning process. And let's be frank, no bloke gives a flying fuck whether I wear them or not, so I might as well leave them in the drawer to gather dust, and stick to all the grey and sagging crap that seems to match my general mood right now.

For Monky (and myself, as I love this) a little poem in honour of the above theme. Oh I wish...

With a Gift of Rings

It was no costume jewellery I sent:
True stones cool to the tongue, their settings ancient,
Their magic evident.
Conceal your pride, accept them negligently
But, naked on your couch, wear them for me.

Robert Graves