My dear Miss Poptoe,
I fear I have been tardy in my communications of late, but with very good reason. I have been an assiduous and patriotic observer of the Olympic Games, albeit from the comfort of my sofa. Who knew that watching sports could have such a beneficial effect on the body? My upper arms are approaching their youthful firmness as a result of regular air-punching, my legs have become similarly toned whilst watching the show jumping (I have a nervous reflex kicking action as each horse, of whatever national team, leaps a fence), and my deportment has greatly improved, so long have I spent sitting on the edge of my seat.
And speaking of equine events, they have provided me with such an aerobic workout just gazing on the riders. Oh my dear, such charming pulchritude with top hats, tail coats and thighs clad in sleek white breeches tucked into gleaming top boots. With spurs! A veritable feast of Mr Darcys that caused my bosom to heave and my pulses to race.
Would that all participants conformed to such sartorial elegance. The attire of the male competitors in the running events is quite shocking in its figure-hugging nature. It really is unnecessary for the competitors to announce their religious persuasion through such overt displays of the contours of their nether regions. I feel that a ruling should be brought in about the donning of modesty aprons, though I must confess that the the arch of my eyebrows has been elevated to new levels, so that is another Olympian positive.
It was gratifying to see that all classes were catered for competitively speaking, even the paupers. There was a bicycling event, I think termed BMX, that appeared to be for those who could not afford the proper equipment. The young people raced on bicycles that they had long outgrown, or had borrowed from their younger siblings, and instead of the smooth course of the velodrome, they were obliged to pedal up hill and down dale en plein air. But oh my giddy aunt! How their little legs pistonned, how thrillingly they crashed and provided quality if bloody entertainment reminiscent of the gladiatorial spectacles of the Roman Colosseum.
So my dear thing, back to the sofa with a revivifying glass of Pimms, and three times three hurrahs for the Olympics!
You pulled that off wonderfully! I was smiling the entire way through.
Oh Scott, you are too too kind. Do you perchance own a top hat and thigh -hugging riding breeches?
Nope, but in my dreams I may have to try them on.
It’s people like you that make me proud to be British. Anytime your chimney needs sweeping just shout and I will send the kids round with their toothbrushes
My dear, you sound like the sort I could recognize as an acquaintance. Ankle biters for slave labour…just the ticket for payback time!
‘Tis an honour an; no mistake your ladjestyship!
A toast of mulled cucumber, Pimms, and ginger ale to you. Your post was the best way to begin a Sunday. Thanks.
Ah, the blessed day of rest and recovery! I belatedly thought of a way to improve the games for the future, to be precise, the clay pigeon shooting matches. Delightful though the puffs of magenta and orange were as the disks vaporised, just imagine the thrill of seeing clouds of grey feathers streaked with claret exploding if they used real pigeons. No doubt the catering team could put the carcasses to good use and reduce the cost of the budget.
I loved these Olympics and I have been glued to the TV or computer screen for two weeks, so many events, it was wonderful. The opening and closing ceremonies were beaitiful, so many artists, it’s going to be hard for the rest of the countries to top that, really. I thought, however, if they wanted a more dramatic ending they could have had Iron Maiden’s Eddie blowing up the toech and Ozzy Osbourne eating off the head of the Phoenix bird. Memorable, just memorable… 😀
Ozzy dining on the phoenix head would indeed have been an explosive and electrifying end to not only the celebrations, but Mr Osbourne himself…another suggestion for the Rio organizers…well done that woman.
I like Mrs C.
In a weird and creepy way, she reminds me of one of those Downton Abbey babes.
Mary in particular. Only with Sharpie’d eyebrows and way too much foundation. (and rouge)
I pretend her name is Mrs. Chlamydia sometimes, and that she’s this really a hot British minx. Weird huh? I know.
Steady on there young man! The only thing that adorns my face is a superior expression to match my elegant lip curl (this latter not to be confused with my elderly persons whiskers). My fresh English complexion needs no embellishment, and I can confirm that ‘Minx’ has long been my middle name, though for so long that I have problems remembering it, and indeed, my first name, apart from the Mrs bit.
Mrs. C, I love you. In a most decidedly weird and creepy way.