The French language has no equivalent for the English phrase “mutton dressed as lamb”. A puzzling oversight considering the army of Parisian moutons out there with their puckered, perma-tanned hides, escort-esque attire and make up applied with a palette knife à la Paint along with Nancy.
On a typical balmy summer’s day, flocks of moutons can be found sun-worshipping by the lakes in the Bois de Vincennes/Boulogne – parks on the outskirts of Paris where South American transvestites ply their trade at night and families picnic by day – exhibiting acre upon acre of leathery skin. Topless pensioners: not my cup of tea, although I don’t doubt that there are websites that can cater for your needs if that’s what turns you on.
I look upon global warming and the destruction of the ozone layer as a blessing in disguise. At least if I’m tempted to bare it all when I reach a ripe old age and my cleavage has migrated south of my belly button, exposing skin of any age to direct sunlight will be a thing of the past.