Ones first lingering memory of spoom was in Italy.
Pansy? Yes, Dad? Whilst unwelding her mascara from her bleary eyed idle and delirium of a sun lounger, by a pool. Posh up pronto! Said my Father. Coo, I knew not to question and also to get a shift on. WIthin 10 minutes I was fluffed and puffed, a teenager in a micro mini, three hair pieces stacked ala Carmen Miranda sporting potatoes instead of fruit, and false eyelashes that the front end of a pantomime cow would envy, think early Abba. I wince and reflect upon the fact that one wasn’t quite as ‘poshed up’ as I could have managed.
We were whizzed through winding roads, vine yards, up hill, down dale. The driver had the air-con set for perma-frost and I was certainly under dressed for that if nothing else. 20 minutes after that I had been…
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