Short skirts and hosiery

I found myself in Banbury High Street, giving out flyers for one of my swindles to the good people of that market town, when I saw a face. Or rather, I saw a pair of long slender legs encased in patterned hosiery atop a set of three inch heels. Her short dog-tooth woolen skirt was revealed by the split in her coat as she bent down to tend to her young son. As she walked towards me, I knew that I had to savour each moment of perfection. I mean . . . what the fuck was she doing in Banbury with her child and her mother? A footballer’s wife? In Banbury? Anyway, what I hoped was going to be a short period of agony in beauty as she passed me by was lengthened. She took her boy into the barbers for a trim; the very barbers that I had been standing outside freezing my nuts off for the last two hours. I was desperate for a smoke, but now, behind the glass, she had taken her coat off and was sitting in profile watching Banbury High Street pass her by. Oh for the love of God, how long does it take to cut a boys hair? Please take this woman out of my life. With every maternal smile and kiss on her son's lips so did her skirt rise. I really needed a cigarette. I can smoke forty times a day but this is a one off. I would wait until they left the barbers, then I would give her a flyer and watch her leave my life as suddenly as she had entered it. She did leave. She left in a Hollywood romantic comedy way, an exit that was all smiles and with no tension. And I did give her a flyer. My tongue seemed to have swollen three times it’s normal size. I couldn’t speak. She smiled. And the three of them walked towards the hotdog van and disappeared. I caught a sight of my reflection in the lingerie shop window and thought . . . you silly, silly, ridiculous old man!