Faith moans about the general public.

So, I ventured to Poole town centre to busk because it has been a glorious day indeed. Clad in my finest Summer attire (a men's Harry Potter shirt, a skirt that no longer fits me, black 60 dernier tights and a pair of broken sandals) I trotted off, my huge drednaught Ibanez clinging unwillingly to my spine, with some pretty high expectations of the appearance of the sun and it's ability to make the townspeople more cheery and charitable. I did not, however, expect the following:

1. To be hit on by the town crier, whose valiantly declared chat-up line began with the statement 'At 54 years and one week of service I'm not the oldest crier, but I am the longest serving in the entire world'.
2. To recieve a Trucker Tan,…well, trucker burn. My entire right arm and a respectable portion of my right cheek/ear area are sore and pink. But it’s all cool. Time will merely peel this layer of otherwise potentially bronzed skin to reveal another slab of offensively pasty white far more blinding than its predecessor.
3. To proceed to be hit on by another middle aged man whilst sat outside Wetherspoon's, who slurred something about my being 'gorgeous' and his liking 'my dress'. I can assure you now that I was wearing no description of a dress, as addressed earlier in my listing of clothes.
4. To earn £37.50 IN 3 HOURS! Boojah! I am a God among men!

Henceforth, I am instilled with the questionable festivities of a good day.

Over and out