Down on my uppers

We did it in the potting shed. She took me by surprise, (story of my life). It was only a kiss. Well, a bit more, perhaps. I suppose it was what Jeremy Kyle defines as “sexual contact”, when he is about to give out the results of a lie-detector test.
“You were asked if you had sexual contact with Charlene,” (pause, and a stern look) “sexual contact being anything between a kiss and sexual intercourse. You answered ‘no’; the lie-detector said…”

Anyway, I will leave to your imagination what happened in the potting shed. And no, it wasn’t Grace; it was Lady Sponce, wife of my employer. So perhaps you can understand why I was taken by surprise. She had asked for a tour of the vegetable garden, and commended me on the size of my pumpkins, remarking that she had not had much success in that area. I offered her a bag of my special fertilizer; she followed me into the shed – and leapt upon me!

Honestly, what is it with these upper-class women?

Anyway, in the middle of all this, the door opens and it’s Tobias.
“Sybil what the hell do you think you are doing?” he shouts.
She calmly gets up, dusts down her knees and says “Now don’t get yourself all worked up, Toby, you know it only brings on a malaria attack.”
But he is worked up. So I try to defuse the situation. “Is this your wife, sir?”
He seems unable to speak, so I quickly follow with, “Well you ought to be ashamed of yourself; the poor woman is starved of affection.”



He’s thrown me out. Well, it was his chauffer, Lawrence, who did the throwing. He’s never liked me. I think he’s had his eye on Norah for a while; in fact she did admit to having had a ‘fling’ with him at some time in the distant past – well she says it was distant - it's all rather academic now).

Anyway, he took great delight in manhandling me through the front door – my own front door – and down the steps, whence I fell in an undignified heap. ‘I’ll have you charged with assault, you oaf’ I shouted when I had picked myself up. For reply he threw my suitcase after me, and in trying to dodge, I tripped over the iron boot-scraper and landed flat in the drive, suffering gravel rash to my hands and face.

I picked myself up and, taking a firm grip on my (heavy) case, limped as nonchalantly as I could down the drive.

I went and sat on a park bench for a while, and read the Financial Times, which some yuppie must have left. Then have found myself a nice ‘bed and breakfast’ (very reasonable), run by a pleasant lady: Gwen – a widow apparently. She asked me if I would like the ‘full English’. I said yes, of course; you can last for the best part of a day on a good cooked breakfast.

I am typing this in the local library (or information centre, as it is now called).

No need to worry about me. I am okay. I shall dance again.



Thank you, RJ. I am pleased to be identified as a sixty-year-old schoolboy – with the emphasis on schoolboy.

Yes, I do value your comments – indeed, what need have I for a ‘counter’?

Also the posts from Matilde Bonaparte and Girl Zoot (whatever happened to her?) are very welcome, and encourage me to carry on in the face of adversity and the vicissitudes of life.