Roll your sleeves up

Can someone please buy the Conservative government some short sleeved shirts?

George Osborne, David Cameron and Boris Johnson have all been using the phrase, "roll up your sleeves and get the job done." It's odd, really because you never see any of them with their sleeves rolled up.  Not that any of them would do a job that requires actual sleeve rolling.  They are much more likely to galmi (get a little man in - I suspect this is a word peculiar to our family). Even when Boris cleaned for the Queen he had a long sleeved shirt on under his t-shirt.

The Prime Minister and the man that coverts his job are both old Etonians and I kept thinking that their uniform would have prohibited sleeve rolling. 

Yesterday, I visited my daughter, who lives in Slough and she took us for a walk through Eton to Windsor.   It was my first visit to Eton and I was shocked by how other-worldly it felt.  I'm not saying I didn't like it.  What's not to like about a street that contains an antiquarian book shop, nice restaurants, a deli and a shop that specialises in collectible boxes? Except the parents in their large cars; Mothers with impossibly skinny legs wrapped in jeans that cost more than I earn a month, Distracted Dads who ask their boys questions like, "How did your oral with Boffy go?" and sisters who stare at their sibling's unchecked eating with simmering resentment. There were single boys in Victorian wedding costume and groups of boys in sports gear and none of them had their sleeves rolled up or any of their arms showing.  My daughter said that she had noticed that the boys in frock coats and white bow ties were always alone and thought it was odd because every teenage boy she had met up until this point in her life preferred to hunt in packs. Even the boys in the restaurants with proper linen and silver cutlery had their arms covered.  Long sleeved Hacket Rugby shirts, Thom Browne cashmere sweaters (with the stripes on the arm) and long sleeved blue shirts over jeans were everywhere. 

These perfect boys who grow up to do brilliant things can't be real can they? There's a touch of the Midwich Cuckoos about the place.  What if, on enrolling at Eton the real boys are swapped for alien or robotic replacements and the evidence can be seen on their forearm?

I think that explains everything.