Slave To Fashion

Clearing out the clutter

Is definitely no mean feat

When your cupboards are exploding with crap

Because you’re a hoarder like me

I like to collect clothes

I’ve had some since 1999

Half of which don’t fit

Though I’ll never give up trying

Apparently three wardrobes

And a man size cupboard

Two whopping chests of drawers

Aren’t enough space so I’m buggered

Therefore got to bite the bullet

And shed a load of gear

The charity shop will love me

Though I’ll be also shedding some tears

When you’re like me

Nothing goes out of fashion

And flamboyant dressing

Is one of my passions

The actress in me

Likes to get titivated up

Thus I’ve a range of costumes

All manner of get ups

Sometimes I look a sight

But I really have such fun

Assembling my outfits

Come snow, sleet, rain or sun

The Imelda Marcos

Of Crouch End

A million pairs of shoes

And of coats, about ten thousand

A vast selection of frocks

In an array of sizes

Woolly jumpers galore

And let’s not forget the trousers

Then there’s the skirts

And a plethora of tops

And last but not least

Pyjamas, gym wear and the knickerbox

So many garments

For so many occasions

I need a walk in closet

That I lack one is a source of frustration

I’ve even used up the space

Underneath my bed

It’s chockablock with scarves and hats

Because the wardrobe is on its last legs

The door fell off today

For honestly it’s full to the brim

And in trying to force it shut

I’ve gone and destroyed the hinge

A lesson at last to be learned

Time to admit I suppose

That I’m a shopaholic

And hopelessly addicted to clothes

I blame that bloody snake

In the Garden Of Eden

For if Adam and Eve hadn’t scoffed the forbidden fruit

We’d be butt naked whatever the season

But the swine, he made them sin

And to cover their abject shame

They attired themselves with fig leaves

Never to be starkers again

And fig leaves led to fashion

They say The Devil Wears Prada

And that snake was the devil in question

Thus possessed am I by that blighter

An exorcism perhaps

Would be more suited to my needs

Or perhaps nudity could hit the catwalks

And become trendy then I would be freed!

Dream on, you silly bint

For, alas, that clearly won’t happen

So continue to purge or resist the urge

To be a dedicated slave to fashion.


Which bright spark insisted

That a dress should have its zip

Mostly located at the spine

Running from neck to hip?

Did they assume all women

And transvestites of this world

Would have a 24/7 partner

Or professional contortionist skills?

Or that we could simply sprout

A pair of extra long arms

Like flaming Inspector Gadget

That extend beyond the norm?

You need to be an Octopus

To zip yourself up alone

With a PHD in yoga

Like a coil chord from an old phone

The times I’ve almost slipped a disc

Trying to get my damn dress to fasten

Upside down, reaching for my butt

Bending over backwards

Twisting, turning, toiling

To no bloody avail

And still I can’t yank the zip up

Much higher than my tail

Without really starting to wobble

Almost hitting the deck

Wrestling hard, cursing out loud

Profusely working up a sweat

It’s really such a ball ache

And to admit this I am loathe

But frequently I leave the house

Indecently exposed!

Steaming Hardcore

Unbelievably I was just offered


My ‘WTF?!’ expression

Shows I’ve no concept of its meaning

But I sure as hell don’t intend

To suspend my little miff

Over a pan of boiling water

If you get my drift?!

I’ve never been good at squatting

Even whilst in Japan

Those Asian loos defeated me

I fell straight into the can

So don’t even think about

Asking me to hover

Over a contraption

That will get me hot and bothered

Right where the sun don’t shine

In a ritualistic fashion

Surrounded by a ring of hippi’s

Who’ll be watching me and chanting

Whilst I apparently perch

On a floral-bedecked commode

Filled with liquid and herbs

With my legs akimbo

My foo-foo now on fire

As it naturally begins to cook

Til I can’t sit down for a month

Without screaming as loud as fook!

Who the hell invented?

This ridiculous New Age game?

It gives another dimension

To the entire vaping craze

How addicted must one be

To nasty nicotine?

If one’s mouth and also one’s


Needs a hit or three?


Are you out of your mind?!

My labia aren’t legumes

To be served with butter and thyme

If your ‘yoni’ is that filthy

That soap and water won’t do

And it needs industrial cleaning

Combined with magic too

To make it pristine again

At least spare us the spectacle

Of doing it in public

It’s just not acceptable

To contaminate my newsfeed

With such a load of trash

Expecting me to cough up

For an assault like this on my gash

I’d probably never recover from

And certainly never live down

What exactly do you take me for?

You ‘right on’, crazy clown!

Normally I love

A bit of alternative s**t

I sometimes talk to unicorns

But this just takes the p**s

So thank you but no thanks

Though I’m all for Flower Power

I’ll maintain the hygiene of my flaps

When I am in the shower.