Hotstepper

A busy day with an energetic granddaughter. In the middle of which I’d to depart and attend a meeting with PorthForts (let’s call them that to avoid google searches). Many promises made - to be fair, part of the problem is that they own all the water, the land bits are owned by the Guernsey based mafia and the two only communicate via lawyers, such is the state of the relationship.
Back to retrieve the wee minky and lunch her before whisking her off to soft play, as she desired. Quite an effort to haul her away at the end of the day. And even sitting on the back steps I could see she was wanting more fun. Enough! I’m old. 
Then another boatie meeting with the Royals about our joint company. The annual accounts to present. The end of season tallying to be done. And then a bus to meet the chums. The cycling foursome. 
The Beats. 
Perry Como was the anti-Rat Pack, like the anti-Frank; wouldn't be caught dead with a drink in his hand, and could out-sing anybody.

He was a Cadillac before the tail fins; a Colt .45, not a Glock; steak and potatoes, not California cuisine. Perry Como stands and delivers.