ONLY ONE’S SKY IS BLUE

When one is blessed with a plethora of plumage ... with a large, ahem, well-endowed, farrago of feathers, one awften finds oneself the subject of ridicule and resentment, even of the evilest of evil eyes. Especially if one’s head appears to be in the clouds.

One is regularly advised to keep one’s head (well, one’s calami and plumule, not to mention one’s pinions, pennae and pompons) down. But one is not so easily persuaded. One is, in fact, awften tempted to take the opposite tack. When one is in possession of such, ahem, enlarged endowments, one must show orf one’s enhancements.

Some say one has a tendency to titivate. Some that one has an abundance of hot air. Some that self-important swaggering turns the air around one blue.

To them one says this: titivation titivates, hot air heats, and blue is a very acceptable colour. Or, to speak plainly: one can float, fly, flutter and glide. One can sail, swoop, soar, fart, dart, dash, scud, skim and skirt. One can whizz, whish, puff and whoosh.

One knows one’s interlocutors cannot. Only one’s sky is blue.