I might be turning out like my grand-dad after all … much of his
life seemed to be spent criticising and complaining, grumbling about the youth
and its culture, and fidgeting with a bible.
As the bus lurched past Clapham Common this afternoon with me slumped
against the window on the top deck, I glanced out and noticed a young woman striding away from
the stop and wearing some very tight shorts with that common and conspicuous attention-seeker's combination of very long smooth naked legs and longish silky blonde hair that swung with her rhythm.
And then I caught myself thinking, “Dear oh dear ! If Clapham Common were
the Garden of Eden, that hair would never even hardly cover her nipples.”
