More than a tea dance

This is an extract from a letter in a recent edition of Metro. When I first read it, I found myself in a melange of emotions: shock and disgust at the revelation that there are, seemingly, many old folk who, because of the straitened circumstances in which they find themselves, are reduced to taking off their clothes to earn money for necessaries, wonder at the fact there may be an audience out there that relishes this wholesale degradation of a vulnerable section of society, and, after the righteous indignation subsided, concern that the old dears are being adequately compensated for the humiliation of displaying their week's ironing to the perverts of the parish and that they are managing their self-assessment tax returns.

Perhaps the government has at last realised that, by paying special allowances to the wrinkled ecdysiasts, it demonstrates a tacit acceptance of this vile and exploitative industry, and so have decided to have a long hard look at them. The allowances, that is, not the performances. That would be above and beyond.

Right, off to Westminster we go. Chant loudly after me:

"What do we want?"

"FAIR PAY."

"When do we want it?"

"WHAT?"

I don't know why I bother.