happy ginger day chumlies!

ah hoy-hoy! As the bank holiday is upon us, I inexplicably found myself thinking of you chumlies and how everyday Ginger day spent with you is a sort of holiday, a holiday for the minds. Gingerday is special is it not? A feverish count down to beer o'clock, a time when we can cast off our weekly shackles and embrace our inner ginger vixen and ginger love god. Don't fear it, never fear it.
You can be!
I can be!
He/she can also be!
Take today's ginger. You can be sure this fine lady probably spent all bloomin' week long labouring under the tepid yoke of polyester and mixed cotton, possibly with some lycra thrown in for good measure. Perhaps she is puppy-less? Perhaps she has no robin? Perhaps like the evil and preppy meercat Fisk she is a teacher of sorts. Yes, that's it, I suspect her of pedagogy. Poor lady. A fate worse than Dancing on Ice surely.
I envisualise her standing at the chalkboard, bored, filled with child-loathing, and headmaster- despising, waiting for three bells, when she can say ' Good day to you,' to the last mini-person and flee the grey prefabricated halls of her prison. She is chaffing, straining at the bit, repressed and restrained, her glorious flamed tresses bunned and hidden, her creamy alabaster skin bound by mortal garb, her tarts of hearts lying unnoticed on a dusty shelf.
It would break most spirits.
But not hers! For on Gingerday all such tethers are loosened, shackles of proprietary are cast off. Yea, though she be of a certain age, yea, though no swimwear model, yea though her boobies be heading south faster than Dublin folk who own mobile homes and her mascara curiously applied, what of it? For this proud matriarch is no mere Highfield Hattie. Not for she the bended knee to the weary idle mistress of time, no cuppa cha nor a flick through the RTE Guide will do. Avast scurvy brunnettes, man your frigates blondies, she is rising from the deep sea of tedium, ablaze, alight aglow, betassled, bedeviled, begingered.
Oh ginger madam, though to the naked eye your expression be one of irked crankiness, I know it is but a ruse. I see your hearts, and while you don't exactly wear them on your sleeve, you do proudly display them. What do they signify I wonder? You're love for us all? Your love for mankind? Your love for lifting me higher? Who can say. All I know is that you, and your hearts, have deeply emboldened this Gingerday for this Fatcat and for my Ginger Journey Jockies, and for that madam, I salute you.