a corduroy coat. Cut from the cloth of dreams, my pash for many a year, to own a corduroy coat.
Yesterday my world tipped on its axis a micrometer width of whisker as I happened upon it in a charity shop. Weighing in at least three sizes too big. Was that a problem?
Oh dear me no, not after the time I have patiently waited for that very coat to cross my path.
The size of a poachers coat, rabbit a plenty, a brace of pheasant, a wild salmon or two I could slip so easily into the capacious confines of my new corduroy Crombie?
I could entertain a man within and nobody would be any the wiser.
A man for all reasons lost in a coat for all seasons.
Alright the shoulders skulk half way down my upper arms, hoping no one will notice their decline and fall. For once I can accommodate my matronly bosoom comfortably buttoned up, with ample room to spare. A nipple nirvana. My cups runneth over... encased in corduroy.
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