Fresh air
In one symbolic gesture, I put away the pair of boots, the woolly scarf and the cork-lined tights, for it is Spring in Londontown.

Yeah
And Spring means one thing: it is time to go out, position myself in a propitious area, and stare at the lesbians. A bit like hunting season, only different.
My calendar says it’s time to go out and stare, gawk, gape and possibly leer. I’m not expecting that much leering, though.

But no
I have been putting off the inevitable time when I’d let myself be dragged out. I have been wary, people of blogland. For one thing, the dyke scene bears little excitement for me. Too many identical haircuts, similar low-slung brand name jeans held at half-mast by similar belts, compulsory trainers. I’m not a fashion fascist, I just don’t like clones. And it’s not only policemen who are starting to look young, you know… everyone in there must be about 18.

But yeah
It’s taken me over six months to slowly stop feeling like I’m unwanted/able, damaged goods, thrown overboard by an ex-lover. Wary and scarred, but not too bitter; I have things to offer.

But no
I don’t want a girlfriend. I’m not even sure I want a lover. Yet.

But yeah
Spring = hormones, you know. And a little flirting’s never hurt anybody, has it? Now what can I wear..

Paragraph titles courtesy of Vicky Pollard, of course.