brighteyes

Snip not my girdle, Your Honour, should I fall to the floor like a badly leant guitar. Snip not my girdle, Mademoiselle! Hold instead a cheap vial of salts to my nostril.

We thunked down in Britain, the massive tyres absorbing the weight, giving, recovering. I'd never been on a plane before, much less as a ribbon on the kite of a real rock 'n' roll tour.