When a Birthday Suit simply won't do....

I strain his patience at times. At least, I think I must do. As a celebration of our marriage of 37 years, after three glasses of champagne, I decided to try on the new wet-suit that arrived today. (Rest assured that this benign and bumbling Bunion blog has not taken a deviant turn.) I 'm joining our grandchildren for a day on the beach the Bank holiday. I do not intend freezing my derriere off.   Unused to disporting flesh on beaches, British or otherwise, I decided that the most practical solution was a shortie wet-suit. In my mind's eye, which, apparently seems to be suffering from severe myopia, I envisaged a garment that would hold all my moving parts firmly in place as I sprang like a boardless surfer into to the foam. The very prospect had caused loud and raucous mirth amongst those of my friends privy to this new purchase.

Oh dear. Oh very big dear. The very idea.

Advice to other plumptious sextagenarians contemplating same. Do not attempt after alcohol. I came downstairs, half in, half out. Half-cut.
"Can you help me?" (Waspish and sweaty.)
"What do you want me to do exactly?" (Three glasses of relaxation and not exactly moving at speed.)
"I'm stuck." (Stating the obvious.)
My Dearest husband then attempted to take it off, when actually what I needed was another pair of hands to help me get it on. Together we hoiked it over the second shoulder. Designed for the flat of chest, there was, categorically, no way it was ever going to cover those particular moving parts. Game over. Not quite.
More fumbling, more extruding myself like human toothpaste from its latex tubing. Pink and sweaty I finally slid out from the rubbery cocoon with a,"Hello, Mr. President!"
"Jesus!" he said (but not in a good way).
Happy Anniversary, Sweetie.* What a floor show!
Going to be difficult to top that one next year.

(* Sweetie is still not reading this. Sensible chap. Too busy living the dream. )

Abortive attempt to become silver surfer of a different kind