Great Balls Of Fluff

In an attempt to slenderise  my utterly ludicrous wardrobe, and replenish equally laughable bank account, I am selling off a shopsworth of clothes. My son ,who, to preserve his anonymity, will henceforth be known as Boy,is mildly interested in this.I expect he sees it as a revenue stream to support his endless lust for XBox games and Polo shirts.And trainers. Trainers I find inexplicable, by the way.I find myself being asked to comment upon photographs of huge canvas shoes, differing only slightly from each other by the addition of a shiny trim here, or a tiny logo there. I am of an era which called them "Pumps".They came in white or black, were laced or had a gusset,and were purchased fromWoolworth's by one's mother for Ninteenandeleven. Anyway, I alerted Boy to the possibility of various Burlesque performers, sultry chanteuses, and other floozies of my aquaintance popping round to shimmy into frocks in my bedroom. "And so, you will HAVE to put some pants on". He is an enthusiastic nudist. This was cute when he was tiny.He is not tiny now. He is fourteen, and built on the general lines of the Anglican Cathedral, complete with flying buttresses. "Will THEY keep theirs on, though?" he enquired,with the practised leer of a moustachioed Victorian roue. I shall have to lock him in a cupboard.
I began clothes-wrangling, and  pulled a few suitcases out from under my bed. Imagine my surprise upon discovering that I have dust kittens. A thriving litter, in fact. I was so alarmed I had to put the cases back.
It is so true that, as St Quentin Of Crisp stated "After six years, the dust does not get any worse.It is simply a question of not losing one's nerve"