Fully Feral

I realised I had turned fully feral when I found myself standing in the street
chatting with a friend who was on her morning walk from my customary two metre distance,
but still in my PJ’s and no bra. That’s serious.

But you also have to ask yourself why, when the doors closed behind us, the first thing that half the population did  was let the girls out. Off with the bras, underwire under the bed, push-ups pushed up in the high cupboard and all the rest of those over-shoulder boulder-holder straight jackets buried in the back drawer. Does it really make any difference? There is the alarming issue of gravity to consider. Old age has
a rather nasty way of sneaking up and dragging everything downwards before you actually get down to the grave yourself - it’s like your skin is going first- before you are actually ready. So gravity must be considered if you are going to abandon your push-up bra.

I do have to be very careful not to bend over lest I end up getting a slap in the eye.  And most certainly would not consider trying to run, there could be serious damage to innocent passers-by.

There are whole heap of other reasons why I would not consider running anyway -  but primarily it’s the amount of effort required. When you are fully feral, you move slowly and don’t let yourself get overheated or you may end up needing more than the usual three showers a week.

But for everybody else who does not have to consider these matters, the girls are free for a couple more weeks and we can all relax. No one will come to the door, you will not be going out and everyone else in your bubble is as feral as you are!