Prepare the Spork!
For your eyeballs are about to be assaulted by a truly hideous vision. It knocks the whole trick that Medusa had going on into a cocked hat, so don't say you weren't clearly warned. Incidentally, where did Medusa have snakes? All over? Under-arm? Did they object to the deoderant or did they bite the top off the bottle in a hissy (sorry) fit? I'm only asking...
Anyway, I digress. Piccies.
I now have (thanks to my impressively thoughtful father-inlaw) a crash helmet. OK, it's not the crash helmet I was dreaming about, the one with the fantastical scroll works and foliage and dragonflies all over it, but as we all know, beggars cannot be choosers and anyone who looks a gift helmet in the visor is just plain daft. Which I'm not. It's shiny, and black and shiny and oooh! shiny and has a sneaky little system in that it flips up at the front, instead of having to haul the whole thing up and over your head, removing parts of your ears at the same time. It's So Damn Cool. And free! Because it's my early birthday present *squishes Father-In-Law*.
So, of course, Hubster brings the skid lid home yesterday and I have to try it on. Which means I have to try on my whole suit of leathers. And my gloves. Still no boots, but we can get those this weekend now that we don't need to fork out for the bonce pot. Anyone who has never worn bike leathers (and race replica ones at that) has no idea of what I went through yesterday. These things have to be stretched, i.e. worn on a regular basis to keep them supple and of course, I haven't done that....It's a good job I'm not a bloke, otherwise I would have been letting out the type of noises that castratos would have been paid a fortune to produce. TIGHT is the word.
I'm so sorry to have done this to your eyes.
Slightly better as you can see neither my face, nor my vast thighs!
And finally, a thing of utter beauty: A cat in a sunny patch, looking positively angelic. Errol The Gay.
I'm off to contact my parents. In that helmet, I'm obviously the love child of Darth Vader and The Stig...
Anyway, I digress. Piccies.
I now have (thanks to my impressively thoughtful father-inlaw) a crash helmet. OK, it's not the crash helmet I was dreaming about, the one with the fantastical scroll works and foliage and dragonflies all over it, but as we all know, beggars cannot be choosers and anyone who looks a gift helmet in the visor is just plain daft. Which I'm not. It's shiny, and black and shiny and oooh! shiny and has a sneaky little system in that it flips up at the front, instead of having to haul the whole thing up and over your head, removing parts of your ears at the same time. It's So Damn Cool. And free! Because it's my early birthday present *squishes Father-In-Law*.
So, of course, Hubster brings the skid lid home yesterday and I have to try it on. Which means I have to try on my whole suit of leathers. And my gloves. Still no boots, but we can get those this weekend now that we don't need to fork out for the bonce pot. Anyone who has never worn bike leathers (and race replica ones at that) has no idea of what I went through yesterday. These things have to be stretched, i.e. worn on a regular basis to keep them supple and of course, I haven't done that....It's a good job I'm not a bloke, otherwise I would have been letting out the type of noises that castratos would have been paid a fortune to produce. TIGHT is the word.
I'm so sorry to have done this to your eyes.
Slightly better as you can see neither my face, nor my vast thighs!
And finally, a thing of utter beauty: A cat in a sunny patch, looking positively angelic. Errol The Gay.
I'm off to contact my parents. In that helmet, I'm obviously the love child of Darth Vader and The Stig...