I haven’t seen anyone naked since last Michaelmas. I don’t remember much, except a tearful rush of gratitude at being there at the time. Since then, apart from a well-thumbed June 2006 copy of Juggs magazine; naked women have been rather thin on the ground.
The gambit of sidling up to said paragon at the bar, suavely tossing a set of scuffed late-model Ford Fiesta keys on the bar counter and say “You could be driving home in this tonight, babycakes” has proved fruitless.
So I’ve got me a sawed-off pump-action babe-magnet; Stankie, my pug puppy. This dog can make girls shriek at 100 paces, and derail the skewed hamster wheel of a woman’s mind at 50 yards. Stankie doesn’t turn heads, she stops trains. Any public appearance brings forth a scrum of women hysterical as a riot at an Enrique Iglesias book signing.
I’ve yet to capitalize Stankie-Mania into any tangible totty. Perhaps I should dispense with the ineffectual chit chat and give chloroform a bash.