‘You must meet Matilda my dear’
said Norman. ‘But first things first: still wine or fizz; which kind of girl
are you?’
‘A champagne
girl of course’.
‘Of course you
are,’ cooed Norman. ‘Of course you are’.
‘Hi de hi campers,’
sung Matilda, flexing a leg on her arrival by the mantelpiece. ‘And please excuse
my sweat; I’m training for a half-marathon’.
‘Don’t mind a
little girl sweat do we?’ asked Norman
‘I’m running for
the dwarf horse hostel by the canal,’ said Matilda removing her shorts.
‘Matilda is the local
animals’ Joan de Arc. Cats and dogs and even foxes, she’s quite a girl I can
tell you,’ said Norman
‘What’s your
name?’ asked Simon, the chap without pants lying on the lawn.
‘Mary, my name
is Mary.’
‘Not at all
contrary: it’s a very beautiful name my dear and it suits you very well,’ said
Norman.
‘It certainly
does,’ added Simon. ‘Like a soft leather slipper on a warm clammy day.’
Suddenly
Norman’s wife, Brenda, entered sans brazier. ‘Do you respect the tit, Mary?’
she asked
‘Well, I’m not
sure . . .’
‘Put it away
Brenda, Mary’s a shy girl; not quite ready for the tit,’ cautioned Norman.
In the garden Matilda
was naked and bouncing on top of Simon.
‘Oh yes, quite a
girl our Matilda,’ said Norman with a wink.
‘I think I’d
better be going,’ said Mary.
Brenda’s giant
bosom blocked the doorway into the street. ‘Do you respect the tit, Mary?’ she
repeated.
‘Not really,’
said Mary squeezing past Brenda’s bosom and out into the cold.
Half way home Mary
remembered she’d left her pants on their sofa and realised she’d have to go
back to get them.
