It’s that time of year again - when I want to be a character in a Jolly Cooper novel - and only eat orange and steak for a week so I can squeeze into a too tight dress with a stain I’ve artfully covered with a brooch, after I have drenched myself in scent so I can get off with a dangerous drunk mysterious man who is loaded with cash and will whip me away to San Tropez, where I will only have an old bathing dress with moth in the seat which I keep falling out of. There I will meet a loveable old lech covered in Man Tan and flirt wildly while getting tight after too much gin.
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