O God!! I’ve become serious and pedantic! How did this happen? Where was my surveillance- my inner humour police? Why is it when a writer decides to write "essays" she becomes suddenly transformed into that horrid caricature of time honoured female intellectuals? Here I am suddenly with a bun at the nape of my neck, a midline part in my hair and a beige twin sweater set on over a midcalf skirt with a distinct sag of the hem. Me- that foxy lady in trendy jeans not too tight, but with a refined though sexy allure, and a top that speaks volumes of exciting though tasteful experience in what can only be the "Crème de la creme" of artistic fashion? I’m afraid dear reader, I need to have a long thoughtful pause!
‘Was I really portraying myself as the epitome of self conscious understated and undermined mouse of spinsterhood in literature? I wish!! To be able to place myself in that exalted exclusive club of females in twin sets is sheer impertinence! All my life I have longed to be in that club. To be able to carry off that distinct uniform with élan has always been my desire. Especially to be able to hold my profile in a Virginian Wolfe- like angle, with my aristocratic nose and that alluring understated sexy indent between the upper lip and nose. Oh how I envy Virginia
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