Читать книгу Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions - Timothy Lea - Страница 39

“Do you like kids?” says Ted.

“Not particularly,” says I.

“Just as well,” says Ted. “We had a bloke once that did – you probably read about it in the papers.”

It is a few days after my little chalet party and by running like a bloody greyhound every time a bird comes near me I have steered clear of the dreaded ‘hanky panky’. Neither Janet nor Avril has made a direct assault on my person and I am learning that it is quantity, not quality that counts in this place. The more Holiday Hosts a bird lays the happier she is. The way some of them come at you, you would think the old bloke who stokes the boiler would be safer with a padlock on his flies. And it is not only the paying customers who have a case of the galloping hots. Most of the chalet maids make the beds from the inside.

“Get over to the Nipperdrome and give Sam a hand for a couple of hours,” says Ted. The Nipperdrome is where the Funfrall nippers enact a grisly replica of their parents’ games and competitions and is full of screaming kids who would sharpen a used razor blade on your throat if they could be bothered to dig it out of the toe of their bother boots.

“Then you can supervise the quarter finals of the croquet competition.”

“But I don’t know anything about croquet.”

“That doesn’t matter. Just stop them using the mallets on each other. We’ve had to replace a lot of equipment lately. Then there’s the archery. That can be very ticklish. At the first sign of them not using the targets – finito! Some lunatic shot Francis’s cat once; wanted to take it home and stuff it. Can you imagine? Our leader did his tiny nut. If you’ve got any time before trough-bashing you can potter round to the roller-skating rink. Things can get a bit out of hand down there, too.”

“Why don’t we just issue them with machine guns and let them got on with it—”

“Now, now, don’t be like that. You direct your energies to sapping theirs and keep a smile glued on your mug. That’s what you’re paid for. Oh, and by the way, it’s the Holiday Queen contest tonight and we’ve only had six entries. Take a handful of entry forms and dish them out to any half-decent bird you see. If we’re stuck with the bunch of stumers we’ve got at the moment, we might as well turn it into a nobbly knees contest. If it’s any inducement, you can sit on the judging panel.”

So off I trip to the Nipperdrome where Uncle Sam is surrounded by kids blowing up balloons as their contribution to the coming evening’s gaiety. Uncle Sam is a character, which means he is the only Host on the camp who does not smile all the time. In fact, he never smiles. His relationship with the children is based on mutual loathing and seems to work as effectively as any other around the place.

“Don’t do that, son,” he snarls at one of his charges. “It’s not nice, and it’s not good for you. And you, I’ve told you once. Blow them up!! You’ll do yourself an injury messing about like that. Hello, Timmy. What have you done wrong to be sent to this penal settlement?”

“Nothing that I know of. Ted told me to breeze down and give you a hand.”

My attention has been seized by a tall bird, wearing slacks and dark glasses who is standing by one of the kids’ roundabouts. She is also sporting a bikini top and this reveals an outstanding pair of knockers well worthy of a place in the “Holiday Queen” contest.

“Why don’t you take some of these kids off and organise a football match. You’d like that, wouldn’t you boys?”

There is a chorus of enthusiastic “yes’s” and one equally loud raspberry from a child with a complexion that resembles the before part of an acne advertisement.

“Get those balloons out of your pullover!” hisses Uncle Sam. “Hold the fort for a minute, Timmy. I’m just nipping into the office for a quick snifter. I can see it’s going to be one of those days.”

Ten minutes later two teams of tiny tearaways are kicking the stuffing out of each other and I can wander over to the bird by the roundabout.

“Hello there,” I smile warmly, “I expect you’ve heard about the Holiday Queen contest tonight. I wonder if you’ve had time to fill in an entry form.”

“What, me?” She seems genuinely surprised. “I’ve got three kids.”

“Never! I thought you were looking after your kid sisters.” O.K. so it’s pretty corny but have you ever known a married woman unpleasured by such a remark? “Come on, you must have a go. There’s nothing much to beat.” The minute I say it, I realise I could have put it better. “Just pop your monicker down here and be at the stage entrance of the Happydrome with your bathing costume at seven thirty.”

“Well, I don’t know what my husband will say.”

“He’ll be proud of you. And if you win this, you’ll be in the area final and then there’s the chance of a trip to London and possibly a jet flight to Los Angeles for a screen test. Come on, it’s all good fun, isn’t it?”

She takes off her glasses and looks me straight in the eyes. “You don’t think I’d make a fool of myself?”

“Good heavens, no. I wouldn’t have asked you if I hadn’t thought you were in with a chance.”

She looks across the beach thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t half give Ron a surprise to see me up there. He’s always saying—oh, it doesn’t matter.”

I can see that all she needs is a nudge so I deliver one.

“I probably shouldn’t say this, but I’m one of the judges and I can assure you that I don’t think you would be making a fool of yourself.”

“Well, if you really think I have a chance.”

“Definitely.”

“Alright then. Where do I sign?”

An hour later, and heavier by the weight of a flick knife confiscated from the inside right of the Club Cubs, I am listening to the gentle click of croquet balls and keeping my eyes open for future beauty queens. Most of those playing are of the Darby and Joan variety but there is one little raver with competitor written all over her. Emitting a screech of delight, she whangs her opponent’s ball into the roses and lines up a shot which sends her own trundling neatly through the hoops.

“Oh, give over, Else,” whines her consort who obviously hails from the fair city of Birmingham. “I’ve had enoof.”

“Well, I haven’t,” says his partner firmly and lashes her ball another twenty yards up the green. “It takes the satisfaction out of winning if you chicken out.” She is not the loveliest girl I have ever seen, having a very pouty mouth that looks as if it has been developed by picking up ping pong balls with her lips, but she has a tight little body and unusual grey eyes. All in all, a very adequate contender for the title of Miss Melody Bay.

“Talking of winning,” I say with that exquisite sense of timing that has made me the toast of every talent contest in South Clapham. “I take it that you have entered for the Holiday Queen Contest?”

Her partner snorts. “Holiday Queen Contest! You must be joking.”

“Shut your mouth,” snaps spirited Else’. “I was thinking of going in for it anyway. You may not find me attractive, but some people do.”

She looks at me for acknowledgement of this fact which comes with the speed of light.

“Very,” I observed calmly. “I’m going to be one of the judges and I’d say you had a great chance. Of course, I’m only expressing a personal preference. I can’t speak for the others.”

“Did you hear that skinny? It shows all you know. Why don’t you get someone to help you lift your ball out of the flowerbed and give over being so bleeding rude?”

“But Else’.”

“Shut up!” She turns to me and her eyes hold a melting softness which belies her terrier toughness.

“What do I have to do to enter?”

In the next couple of hours I try a number of birds, but though flattered, most of them just giggle and say that they could never do it in front of all those people. Husbands and boyfriends are universally anti and glare at me as if I am recruiting for the white slave trade. It may be possessiveness but I am inclined to believe that the real reason is that they don’t want to bathe in the reflected ridicule that greets their birds’ performances.

It is not until I join up with the archery class that I find another obvious contender. Athletic Janet is unleashing a shaft as if born and bred in Sherwood Forest and the quiver of her titties is a bloody sight more arresting than the one on her back.

“Hello,” I say, dropping my voice to a pitch that would have made George Sanders rush out to buy a course of elocution lessons. “How is it going?”

“Not bad,” she says, “you never told me you were a Holiday Host.”

“You never asked me,” I say. “I didn’t even know you were coming here at first, so there was little point in mentioning it. I expect you’ve entered for the Holiday Queen Contest?”

“Ted was mentioning it.”

“Oh, so you’ve come across Ted?”

She smiles and slams another arrow into the bulls eye.

“You could put it like that.”

I ignore the implications of that remark as being too disgusting and continue: “Yes, well, have you entered?”

“Not yet. I don’t know if it’s my kind of thing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous; a beautiful girl like you. You’d be mad not to.”

“Do you think I’ve got a chance?”

“Got a chance? Listen, I’m one of the judges. I wouldn’t be talking about it unless I thought you had a big chance.”

“Oh, alright. I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think about it. Do it now. Look, I’ve got an entry form here.”

Her eyes flash across me and there is a faint smile playing around her lips – not at all a bad place to play, I might add.

“Have you ever thought of selling insurance?” she says. “Look, I’ve told you, I’ll think about it, and if I fancy the idea I’ll pop round to your chalet and fill in a form.”

“Do you know where my chalet is?”

“Yes. It’s three down from Ted’s.”

The way she comes out with that should put me on my guard but I can be amazingly innocent sometimes.

I am not on dinner duty in the Potato’s Revenge so I slope back to my chalet for a spot of Egyptian P.T. before facing up to the rigours of the afternoon. No sooner have I settled on the bed, eased my shoes off and stuck my tongue out at my blazer than there is a sharp rat-tat-tat at the door. Cursing gently, I do what is expected of me and find Janet standing on the dorstep. Before I can say “Raquel Welch has lovely knockers” she is standing behind me.

“I know I’m not supposed to be here, really,” she says, “but I thought I’d enter for your competition after all.”

“It’s not my competition. I’m just helping to run it.”

“Yes, but you’re one of the judges, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“So you’re going to have a say in who wins?”

“I suppose so.”

“I’d like to win a beauty contest.”

There is a firm edge to her voice which brings me up short as I fumble for the entry forms.

“I reckon you stand a very good chance,” I say earnestly. “Ah, here we are. Now if you just fill in your name and …”

I stop talking because Janet has slipped an arm round my neck and is rubbing herself gently against my action man kit.

“It was nice in the train, wasn’t it?” she murmurs.

“Fantastic,” I gulp. “But like you said, you know the rules. I’m a Holiday Host and you shouldn’t be here.”

“What are you going to judge the girls on?” she says, starting to curl the hair at my temples. “Sex appeal?”

Blooming heck! I can feel the sweat beginning to prickle under my armpits. I know I should heave her through the door but at moments like this my resolution seems to go all to cock. A very appropriate choice of words, too, because Percy is perking up like he is trying to peep over the front of my Funfrall issue black worsteds. Trouble with me is that the flesh is weak, but strong at the same time, if you know what I mean.

“I’m supposed to be down at the boating pool in a few moments,” I gibber pathetically. If only my mind and body were under the same management I would not be in this sort of trouble. Even as I speak, my hands are sliding down over Janet’s peach-shaped buttocks and lifting the back of her skirt. The pleasure I get from this act is horrible but I can do nothing to stop myself.

A few minutes later I am examining her naked sun-patterned body and viciously kicking the fag end of the aforementioned Funfrall issue black worsteds over my heels. She draws up her legs and it is like the breach mechanism of a twenty-five pounder issuing in the shell. I am inside her before you can say Eric Robinson.

“You will see I do alright tonight, won’t you?” she breathes, grinding away like one of those pepper pots you never know whether to shake or screw. In her case, the question of an alternative does not present itself and I am taken out of myself, as they say, in less time than I would ever want to boast to my friends about.

“That was marvellous,” I gush before she can say anything. “Now you really must go or I’ll be out of a job. Don’t forget to take your entry form.”

It seems she has only just gone out of the door when there is another knock on it. This time of a more timid variety. I finish knotting my tie, adjust my smile and open the door. It is the bird who was at the Nipperdrome.

“Oh, I’m sorry to trouble you but—”

“Come in,” I say. I mean, why fight it? I am obviously a doomed man.

She is wearing a white dress with frills round the neck and has slapped on a bit of eye makeup which does her no harm at all. I can’t help feeling she has made a special effort before coming round.

“What’s the problem?” I say.

“Well, I’ve been reading the form and I don’t think I can go in for the contest.”

“Why not?”

“I’m over thirty.”

She has very long eyelashes this bird, and one of those soft peaches and cream complexions that I associate with dew-soaked meadows and oast houses – I think it was one of those butter advertisements. She is obviously nervous because she is fiddling with the entry form between her fingers.

I feel I want to help her.

“Look, it doesn’t matter. You go in for the contest and we’ll worry about that afterwards. You want to go in for it, don’t you?”

“Yes, but what am I going to do about this form?”

“Just put down your date of birth. Nobody is going to check it. It’s all a bit of a giggle anyway, isn’t it? Think how chuffed your old man would be if you won, even if you were disqualified later.”

“That’s another thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I told Ron about the contest and he said I was mad – that I didn’t have a chance – that I would make him a laughing stock.”

Tears glisten in her eyes and I reckon that even Mr. Francis would expect me to make with the sympathy. Nasty Ron!

“Now, come on,” I say. “I’ve told you before. You’re a very, very attractive woman. I don’t want to say anything rude about your husband, but maybe he hasn’t taken a good look at you lately.”

“He said I was fat.”

Her lip starts trembling and a big tear forms and topples slowly down her cheek. I am outraged.

“Fat!!? You’re—you’re delicious—”

I offer her my handkerchief and she takes my hand and kisses it. The poor girl is obviously desperate for reassurance and affection. I cannot quite remember what it said in my Holiday Host Manual but I am certain I am supposed to supply both. “There, there, you mustn’t cry,” I say, taking her gently in my arms. “Fat? Your husband doesn’t, realise what a lucky man he is. Curvy, maybe, and soft, certainly, you have the softest skin—” I am stroking her cheek— “—and lips.” I run my fingers along her lower lip and kiss her gently. “You go out there and really show them tonight.” I can feel the tears cool against my cheek as I stroke her spine.

“But—”

“No buts. You’re beautiful. Come on, I’ll show you.”

An alarm bell is clanging in my mind but I silence it with the pressure of my fingers around her waist and steer her over to the mirror. Her dress has buttons all down the front and from behind I gently release them, one by one, allowing my hands to steal in and massage the territory revealed.

“Beautiful breasts—” I reassure her, ”—slim waist—gorgeous thighs—just look at your legs, they’re great. What have you got to worry about?”

I know what I should be worrying about but I have less chance of pulling back now than a piece of fluff at the mouth of a suction cleaner. I turn her round and kiss her warmly on the mouth, pulling the dress down and off her arms so that I can drop it on to a convenient chair.

“You won’t let me come last, will you?” she breathes, as we topple on to the bed.

I think she is referring to the Beauty Contest.

Half an hour later she has been sent on her way rejoicing and I am struggling into my clobber again. I am now late for my next assignment and feeling decidedly knackered. It is therefore with some anxiety that I hear another knock on my door. Thinking that it is my last visitor who has left something behind, or Ted coming to chase me up, I throw it open to be faced with – you’ve guessed it – Else’ wearing enough makeup to kit out a tribe of Red Indians and a T-shirt that is stretched so tight across her tits that you can see the indentations on her nipples.

“I want to have a word with you,” she says.

“Evidently,” I say, wondering whether to slam the door in her face, or try and run for it. “Which one do you want to have?”

“What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Why does Gary Grant never have my trouble getting through to birds? “What is it? I’m in a hurry.”

“I want to show you something.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Can I come in?”

“I suppose so.”

I haven’t got the strength to stop her anyway. As she skates through the door, I notice that she has something clasped in her hand which looks like a kid’s handkerchief.

“What is it, then?”

“I wanted to ask you about my costume.”

“What about it?”

She holds up the fragment of material in front of herself and I can see that it is one of those costumes that have bloody great holes everywhere except where there is black mesh.

“In the rules, it says you have to wear a one-piece costume. Will this do? I mean, it doesn’t cover my tummy and it does plunge very low at the back.”

“Well, if it’s all fastened together it should

“Probably better if I showed you.”

Hey, hang on a moment!”

“You can look the other way if you like.” And the shameless little cow starts tugging her T-shirt over her nut.

“I told miseryguts Brian I was going to do this and he said I wouldn’t dare.”

“I would have agreed with him. Do you realise I could be sacked if anybody came in now?”

She is now revealing a neat pair of bristols with bell push nipples, and wastes no time in lowering her shorts to reveal the smallest pair of panties I have seen outside the toddlers’ paddling pool.

“Here,” she says, looking at me without a flicker of embarrassment disturbing her sly little features. “Do you think you could pull a few strings?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know. Get me amongst the prizewinners. You’re one of the judges, aren’t you? I could make it worth your while.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Go on. I quite fancy you anyway. I’m fed up with old misery guts mauling me.” She is closing with me fast and once again my split personality betrays me. Like a punch drunk boxer hearing the count near ten Percy begins to pull himself up off the canvas. Ferret-fingered Else’ immediately adds to my problems by making a direct frontal assault and in an instant I have stumbled back against the bed and am at her mercy.

“Just somewhere in the first three,” she says, as she slips out of her panties.

“Ooh, you’re lovely, you really are.”

I never ever see her in her bleeding bathing costume and by the time she leaves I am prepared to climb out of a window to get away from the place. My fingers are shaking as I knot my tie for the third time and I nearly bash my head on the ceiling when somebody laughs as they go by outside. By the cringe, but you have to be in peak physical condition if you want to hold down a job in this place.

After the events of the last couple of hours, it is with a feeling of pure horror that I see Mr. “Hanky Panky” Francis himself approaching as I stagger down the pathway that leads from my chalet. No doubt the maid has cracked under interrogation, or one of the informers rumoured to lurk amongst the holidaymakers, has squealed. As he comes nearer I cast down my eyes and cold fear invades my person.

“Afternoon, laddie,” he observes, “keeping your end up?”

I give him a bit of an old fashioned look at that one, but his expression does not suggest any secondary meaning to that normally associated with the phrase.

“Keep smiling,” he observes and, flashing his Ted Heath’s, wanders on his way.

Fortunately, I find two nice kids from Billericay, which I always thought was in Ireland, to row me round the boating lake all afternoon. In this manner I can conserve my energies and consider what I am going to do about the evening. Obviously, Mrs. Married, Janet and Else are going to expect big things from me but they must realise that I am just one of the judges. I can’t make them all first equal, even if I wanted to. On the other hand, being women, they will probably still turn nasty if they end up as also-rans. Janet and Else are the ones I am worried about most. With Mrs. Married it was just a question of giving her confidence a boost, but the other two would lay the whole panel of judges if they thought – wait a minute! – the germ of an idea begins to form in my disgusting little mind.

Telling my little playmates to row me swiftly to the shore, I make my way to the camp office and obtain a list of the judges and contestants. There are four of the former, including the camp chaplain – who may present a bit of a problem, Francis, Ted and myself. Twelve contestants, or finalists as they are now called, have been assembled.

Seizing a spare typewriter, I construct a note stating that the judges will be pleased to interview finalists, before the contest, to obtain an idea of their interests and hobbies, and to form an impression of their personalities in more relaxed surroundings than those that will be pertaining at the contest itself.

This little masterpiece I then stuff under the doors of Janet and Else’s chalets, reckoning that Mrs. Married will take defeat in her stride provided that the audience does not actually pelt her with rocks.

How my little plan succeeds I can only guess but when we assemble in the scrutineer’s office behind the stage, it is obvious that Ted is looking decidedly knackered. Even the chaplain looks a bit pale but that is probably my imagination.

“Very strange,” says Francis, “but when I came back to my bungalow this evening, I found this garment stuffed through the letterbox with a note attached to it.”

The garment he is referring to is the top half of an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, yellow polka dot bikini.

“What did the note say?” says Ted.

“Come round to chalet 75 and collect the other half.”

“Surely the expression is ‘the better half,’” says the chaplain.

“Depends which way you look at it,” says Ted.

“My wife is not in the habit of wearing such garments let alone sending me parts of them to suggest meeting places,” says Francis coldly.

“No, of course not,” says the chaplain hurriedly. “It must have been some kind of practical joke.”

“And in very poor taste, too. Who do we have in chalet 75?”

“You didn’t go round, then?” I say, proving what a stupid berk I can be. Francis rounds on me like I have suggested fitting out the Nipperdrome with contraceptive machines.

“Of course I didn’t go,” he hisses. “What kind of man do you think I am?”

This is quite a taxing question but luckily I don’t have time to answer it.

“Number 75 contains a Miss Elsie Worple and a Miss Pearl Barr,” says Ted. “I know Miss Worple—er slightly. She’s in the contest tonight.”

“Really.” The way Francis says it I know Else’s chances have disappeared up the spout.

“Young people today can behave in the most extraordinary fashion,” says the chaplain, “ah well, I suppose we must fortify our nerves for the test ahead.”

He directs his gaze towards the table laid out with sherry and twiglets and we all nod solemnly and start tucking in.

It is obvious that the fortnightly Holiday Queen contest is something of an occasion and this is brought home to me when we file out onto the judges’ rostrum.

The hall is packed and the noise that greets our appearance suggests that most of those attending are, as usual, pretty well oiled. The Holiday Queen contest comes at the end of an evening of dancing, spot prizes, talent contests and what are laughingly called cabaret acts. As we take our seats so Waldo the Unbelievable – with a conviction for perjury to prove it – is chucking flaming carving knives at his wife. What danger there is comes mainly from the risk of one of them igniting his breath – Waldo, it is rumoured, takes a drop of the hard stuff to frighten his nerves away before every performance.

No sooner are we settled than Maestro Freddy Newbold brings his baton down as if executing someone and the orchestra delivers a silencing chord. This is the signal for dapper Holiday Host Henry to spring forward and deliver a few words about the pleasures to come:

“Laydees and Gentlemen, boys and girls, chaps and chapesses, now is the moment you have all been waiting for. The Holiday Queen contest. We have a bevy of outstanding beauties waiting in the wings but before you feast your eyes on them, I’d like to introduce our panel of judges. First—” He rambles on like this for a while and we each stand up and take a bow. Ted gets a big reception, especially from the birds, but I don’t expect this does him any good with Francis. With my glass of water and my “scrutineers” form and pencil in front of me, I feel a bit of a lad and am almost beginning to enjoy myself, when the first bird teeters on to the platform to roars from the crowd.

Each contestant has to walk across the stage, climb a short flight of steps onto a platform, do her bit to electrify the judges and descend the other side. The first bird is obviously terrified out of her tiny mind and you can’t blame her. The noise that greets her must make her feel she is running out on to the pitch at Hampden Park and not all of it is encouragement – inter-suit rivalry dies hard at Melody Bay. Coupled with this, she is a bird who could only have entered the contest when drunk or for a bet. It does not look as if she has ever worn high heels before, because she staggers across the stage like a kid wearing its mum’s shoes for the first time. Her hands, which are supposed to be holding a card with her suit emblem and number on it, are itching for something better to occupy them and she starts tugging down the back of her costume as she walks. The whole effect is almost too painful to watch and I can see that the ascent to the rostrum is going to be a mini-Everest. Biting her lip, she makes it, attempts to do a turn, nearly falls off and sheds one of her heels. The audience roars and the poor chick loses her last drop of self control. Determined to get the hell out of it at a rate of knots, she hobbles down the steps on one and a half shoes, bursts into tears and runs from the stage. “Run” is the wrong word because what she does looks more like an event left over from one of Uncle Sam’s obstacle races. Even compere Henry who could make a commentary on the crucifixion sound like Andy Pandy meets Big Ears is temporarily lost for words. Eventually he calls for a big hand – which is something I have been waiting to give him ever since we met – and the next contestant appears.

This is Mrs. Married who gives a very good account of herself in the circumstances. I note that there appear to be a few bruises around her upper thighs, but I do not hold this against her in my marking, which is generous.

Next comes another couple of bints who deserve marks for their sheer courage in entering and whose embarrassed red flushes are indistinguishable from birthmarks. Then Janet. Her approach resembles one of those gymnastic birds you see on the tele on Saturday afternoon when you are waiting for the 15.30 from Chepstow. All arched back and feet smacking down as if they are pressing in loose divots. She does not jump up on the table or do a handstand but you reckon she could chop up James Bond with one hand tied behind her leotard. It is an impressive display but I prefer my beauty queens a bit more on the soft and stupid side.

This is obviously something that Else has aimed at and she comes on so that you expect to hear Frankie Vaughan crooning “Give Me the Moonlight” in the background. Trouble is, that Else is not really built for the job. She is a game little chick, but not generously endowed for a touch of the sultries. There is a suspicion, too, that the hot lights and her pre-contest activities have sapped some of her natural vitality. Her make-up might have been sprayed on and seems to be prevented from sliding down her face only by the Funfrall type smile, stretching her features into ridges. I look across at Ted and see that he is nervously fingering his collar. Francis leans across to whisper to him and he nearly jumps out of his skin. I reckon that our Else has indulged in a spot of nobbling there. There is no doubt that Ted and myself are being singled out for special attention. Else gets to the top of the steps and, bending her knees, indulges in a rising wriggle calculated to make a trappist monk start sewing lead weights round the hem of his habit. She pouts at Ted and me and turns to reveal that her tight little arse is her best feature. The audience is loving it and I am having another happy stroll down memory lane when she spins round to give us a second butchers at her torso. Once again she bends her knees and starts to thrust upwards, and then – oh dear – the top part of her costume is held to the bottom by a couple of brass rings which choose this moment to suffer from metal fatigue. The strap springs up, smacks her in the eye and she sits down hard on the edge of the platform. The audience erupts like a skin complaint and poor Else limps off leaving Henry to ransack his cask of cliches again.

The next few contestants are worse news than the Festival of Halitosis and I am seriously beginning to consider Mrs. Married as a contender for my first vote when a really knock-out bird arrives on the scene. Where she has been hiding I do not know, but once you have clapped eyes on her, you wish your hands, knees and boomps-a-daisy could enjoy the same experience. Her figure flows through her costume, swelling and diminishing into a number of delicious backwaters, and ends up in as fine a couple of legs as ever pushed through the holes in a pair of knickers. When she smiles it makes you feel that she would get up at three o’clock in the morning to polish the studs on your football boots and her skin looks softer than a kitten’s armpit. Once seen it is just a question of deciding second and third places.

I assign these to Mrs. Married and Else who I feel deserves something for all her trouble, but in the end, after the scrutineers have bustled to and fro, Henry has told a few terrible jokes and Francis described the problem of picking one bloom from a bunch of roses, it is Janet who gets second prize with Mrs. Married third. I am not really cut up about it, being comforted by the fact that the winner was such an obvious knock-out that neither Janet nor the dreaded Else could be surprised at losing out.

I am still thinking about her an hour later as I strip off and contemplate my ruckled bed. It is strange, but though I should be shagged out I am quite chirpy. With me, the more I get, the better I feel equipped to deal with it. Practice makes even more perfect, in fact.

I am just hanging my blazer over the back of a chair when there is a discreet tap on the front door. I wait for a moment and find my mind picturing three different female shapes on the doorstep. Gratitude, or a punch up the bracket? I ask myself, tucking a bath towel round my waist.

On the doorstep is Miss Melody Bay Week Number 26.

“Hello,” she says.

“Hello,” I say, not wanting to argue with her.

“I got your note.” She dangles a piece of paper between her fingers.

“Oh, yes.”

She pushes past me flicking the knot of my towel and I relieve her of the scrap of paper whilst trying to control my surprise.

“‘Dear June, I may be able to do you a bit of good in the contest,’ it says. ‘If I can, and you feel like saying thank you, why not pop round to my chalet for a drink later on? Ted.’”

Trouble with Ted is that his “ones” look very like “sevens” and my chalet is number seven. Tough luck, Ted, I think to myself as I chuck the piece of paper in the wastepaper basket and follow June into the bedroom, you really should do something about your handwriting.