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Mrs Cholmondeley-Warner’s Olympic Workout (guest contribution)

Photobooth portrait of woman with short hair.

Mrs Cholmondeley-Warner; queen of linguistic AND sofa gymnastics

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!

Pip pip,

Mrs Cholmondelely-Warner

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