You know what's not great?
- Bearing witness to those chomping away at a non-existent rung of economic contribution, who, having wobbled their way into two sizes too small garmentry, must then expose vast expanses of pasty, mottled, stretch marked, dimpled hide to my revolted eye.
- Unwittingly gazing upon the freakishly long, gnarled toenails of an elderly chap in sandals while queuing to pay for batteries in B&Ms.
- Catching an eyeball full of streaky brown stained legs, complete with violently orange patches of fake tanned dry skin scattered about knees, achilles tendons, ankle bones and toe knuckles.
- Noting a fifty odd year old mumsy looking, homely old bird toting about town in the exact same summer top I am currently wearing.
- Standing in multi-storey car park lifts staring straight into the naked pus slick shoulders of a topless little fifteen year old greasy Herbert.
- Seeing gargantuan 'lived in' mammaries swing heftily from strappy, ill fitting, unsupportive vest tops.
- Observing a wide variety of oddly placed terribly predictable tattoos including - swallows, spiders webs, British bull dogs and Tweety Pies.
- Having to tolerate the sight of sinewy middle aged men in faded sleeveless t-shirts who seem to think their muscle mass is still comparable to that which they commanded in the eighties, when they last wore the t-shirt or hit a gym.
I return home from an afternoon's shopping with this catalogue of nausea swilling about my horrified eye sockets. I only realise the degree to which these visions have saturated my repulsed mind when, while dumping down our shopping in the hall, I clock my expression in the mirror.