One of the joys (for me at least) of living alone is the mind-bending outfits I’m currently rocking in the evenings.

That and having a widdle with the door open.

And strutting about in my birthday suit singing ‘Me and My Bobby McGee’ with a small paper hat on my head and red lipstick.

But mainly it’s the outfit. Right now I’m dressing for comfort and warmth, a combination which makes me look as though I’m on an ethnic journey through a psychedelic minefield. Colour? I got your colours right here baby, big bright blocks of the shit like an explosion in a Timmy Mallet factory. Camper than a Gay Pride parade in Pat Sharp’s Funhouse. You want Ethnic prints? I look like the Khao San Road at sundown. I look as though I invented Yoga.


You get the picture. I am currently very colourful, very cosy, baggy and shapeless like an amoeba. Sexy I am not. Wearing what I’m wearing right now I couldn’t get laid if I had a solid gold vagina and a pearl for a clitoris. 

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