Naked Babcia

I just saw my first naked Babcia.

Lying in bed this morning racked by a fever, with sweat in my hair, I was thinking about a blog post on hooliganism (yes, even when sick my first thought is for you dear reader, on my deathbed my last words will probably be the password to this blog so that Paddy Junior can take up the poisoned literary chalice that is this production belt of piffle - shame buggerbognor was taken).

Facing my window is an old people’s home. Most of the time I see them collecting in the sun, smoking cigarettes and not talking to each other. The building itself is an attractive pre-war brick affair with long balconies - God how beautiful Warsaw must have been before the war. Busty bustling matrons in turquoise tabards oversee proceedings. At night they also collect by the windows to smoke their cigarettes. Lights out at twenty one hundred.

I went to the window half an hour ago and stood observing the new day – the elderly being early risers means you get better visual plotki if you watch in the mornings. I’m an early riser too so God knows what time I’ll get up if I make it to that age.

There, yes, there the shape of a naked body, at first the sex is indistinguishable but then definitely female, bending stiffly to put on a shirt and then other articles of clothing. Everything being done at warp factor minus nine. I’m horrified but can’t turn away. It’s a naked Babcia!

Please forgive me, Vicious Trollius (the deity representing all Babcias) but surely with age comes wisdom and the wisdom to close the curtains before ubrac-ing?