Instead of counting sheep tonight, for some reason my mind is engaged in establishing that Maypole dancing was the precursor to pole dancing.

Random? Bonkers? Okay okay…

Wait! Don’t buzz off yet. Because a group of particularly lit and reputable neurones in the far-left recesses of my pink brain (see “Could my Grey Matter be Pink”) have put forward an argument worth considering.

Imagine, if you will, catastrophic ribbon entanglement during a rehearsal for an extremely complex and highly confidential Maypole spectacular. Imagine that this yippedyskippedy was to be performed before the court of a famous and somewhat short tempered man, namely King Henry VIII. Surely a knotted fiasco before such an important event would immediately prompt all participants to skedaddle to Scotland and hurl themselves through the famous Outlander stones, ideally straight into the arms of Jamie Fraser and co.!

That’s where Guinevere, a lithe, determined lass from Lancashire comes in. Gwynne rubs her hands on her petticoat to dry them off, then orders stout old Edwina (from Yorkshire, according to a cluster of more recently formed neurones huddling close to my pineal gland) to give her a leg up. Gwynne then wraps her long, muscular, opalescent legs around the pole, finds her grip and, hey presto, up she goes.

Once she’s summited, Gwynne secures herself to the pole with the only loose ribbon available. From there, she’s able to relax, gently swinging above her incredulous, much relieved friends while she unravels the knot. Finally, when everything sways once again freely in the gentle Gloucestershire breeze, she slides gracefully back to earth, performing a series of acrobatic moves on the way down, just for fun.

“Hmmm, I think she’s onto something,” thinks Jenny, a smart cookie from the stable block, tossing her luxuriant chestnut locks. She clenches her strong upper thighs and mighty buttocks beneath her skirt.

Testing, testing.

The rest is (alternative?!) history.

Cesca xxx