When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

Today, I was out riding Alfie, and he was going along very nicely thank you when a large bearded man leapt out from amongst some grapevines and starting reciting poetry at me. I say AT me rather than TO me because he had a very loud boomy voice.

Alfie was not impressed.

I was QUITE impressed.

Here is the poem:

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple
with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
and satin candles, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
and run my stick along the public railings
and make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
and pick the flowers in other people's gardens
and learn to spit.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
and pay our rent and not swear in the street
and set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

This is by Jenny Joseph.

For your information, I see myself firmly in the LAST verse, practising growing old disgracefully by having purply-blue streaks in my asymmetric hair.

For the moment...