God bless the man in charge of fashion who decreed that very, very tight tops and very, very short skirts are de rigueur for the young ladies for the eighteenth year in a row. However, this joyful news does not come without its own set of mortal dangers.
Firstly, I have an eagle-eyed spouse who is - quite rightly - genetically programmed to notice when her partner's eyes are wondering towards the sweet fleshy globes of other females. Under such circumstances, I find her ability to deliver a well-practiced haymaker to the back of the head to be unrivalled.
Secondly, when out of my charming wife's gaze, or hiding behind very dark glasses, my attention is wont to wander from the job in hand the second all-too-natural manly urges take over.
For example, whilst driving through central Reading – traffic-light capital of the world - on a sunny morning.
One thing led to another, and I am pleased to report that my l33t emergency stop skills are as good as ever.
However, replaying this little bit of unpleasantness on the Caversham Road in my head as I finally made it to the office car park, I realised with some shame – and not a little pleasure – that I came within a few inches of my final words on this Earth being: "Ker-ist, look at the bangers on that!"
I repeat, for posterity: "Ker-ist, look at the bangers on that!"
It is thussly resolved, when I am on my deathbed after 60 golden years as King of the World, that I shall be tended solely by comely young nurses in very, very tight tops and very, very short skirts so that – as I slip the bonds of this surly existence – my final words will be just that.
Bugger "Bugger Bognor" – this is proper famous last words.
"Ker-ist, look at the bangers on that!"
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