Dean Swift ghostwrites David Beckham
This place is a bad influence. More and more I find myself committing the act of prose.
“And good morrow to you, my fine woman. Willst thou divulge thy name?” I asked, for I have always opined that it is better to stick one’s face in the mouth of a lion than display one’s rump to him, not that my present interlocutor was in any way leonine.
“Posh,” replied this vision of beauty and elegance before me in a voice that dripped wild Liverpudlian honey.
Now generally I reserve a great disdain for the simpering, chattering persons of the female sex, with their inane witterings on the most mundane of subjects from flower arranging to lattice-work, but there was something about this ethereal chanteuse that held my attention, possibly her ability to disappear when she turned sideways.
“Posh indeed,” I replied grandiosely and I performed several keepy-uppies for her amusement, at which she clapped excitedly for several minutes before asking me the nature of my profession.
|