My ex possessed an arse so massive her beach swims were declared a danger to shipping. Hippos fled for their lives throughout her Kariba excursion. My swimming pool is nearly twice that size, big as an upside down inside out Ayer’s Rock.
Wooing buxom lovelies has ended in abject failure. My herb garden yielded a sparse pot noodle garnish before being massacred by Stankie (a Bond villain cunningly disguised as a Pug). So, I’m looking for new distractions besides the Moroccan boy.
I’m assembling a water ballet ensemble, or synchronised swimming team. Nine Maillot clad mermaids in floral bathing caps to winsomely scull through the water for my amusement as I recline, sipping mint juleps silently proffered by Mustafa.
