wytchcroft

Not content with poisoning the minds of tiny children with a wacky tutelage of Shakespeare and Space Aleens I have of late (wherefore I know not) begun to narrow my eyes and turn my evil attentions to what one might call the Senior Service (and here in Limey-land, as Burroughs once cracked, “the only good service is senior service”).

To whit (and not a groat less) – my potential career as a Botox smuggler. Yes, folks, right here.
Justly renowned for my zombie chicken neck and a certain resemblance to Gul Dukat, the medical powers that be, clearly worried by my habit of headbutting my own knees, have decided to take matters (that is my neck) into their own hands and inject the sucker with Botox! Yes, Botox! I am to have a neck as smooth as a baby’s bottom or Cliff Richard’s forehead! Thus, they say, will my droopy head be cured and once more stand proud and erect and – madam stop that snorting!

Never one to miss a cheap trick (let’s face it, Cheap Trick? Who would?) my Great British greed has seized upon a plan of genius! With the aid of a little PVA glue which, as all goodly kinder know, is that stuff that looks like skin and provides hours of fun in the classroom playing at radiation burns, I could easily become a supplier to venerable wrinklies up and down the valley (Manafon, natch). A handy collection pouch on the neck, who'd know? Ok, admittedly I am more PVC than PVA by nature but this looks like a win/ win scenario for me – and compensation for being shot in the neck with a lethal nerve toxin at the tender age of no longer 30, compensation is surely due.

So my merry readers; please sign at the dotted email if you wish to be added to my list of customers and remember – a crease free plastic coated future could be all yours! Why settle for looking like an old cushion when you could look like a fire retardant sofa from the 1950s?

Right ho, that’s all for now, so until next time and an exciting chapter I intend to call My Life in the Kate Bush of Ghosts, toodle pip!