Privates on Parade
I spent much of my youth as a member of Henley-on-Thames Air Cadets. The drill hall was the old police station, with genuine cells and a firing range for when the fools trusted us with guns.

On the long summer evenings we had the town at our mercy, and we’d get out to build rafts up by the river, march around the back streets and make a nuisance of ourselves having pitched battles with wooden guns, shouting "Na na na na na!" like demented Private Pikes. We’d always finish with a big parade outside the front of the building as the Union Flag was solemnly lowered at the end of the day.

This particularly balmy July evening saw us in formation on the parade ground at the front of the building. Neatly lined up in our flights, boots gleaming and trousers neatly pressed, the Commanding Officer inspected his troops. Some forty years previously he’d seen off the Bosch with my grandfather in the deserts of Africa, now he was in charge of the pride of Henley’s youth.

It was then that a couple of the lads noticed we had a spectator in one of the old houses, just twenty yards away over the road.

It was the lady of the house, standing at the window, towelling herself down after a bath, completely oblivious to the testosterone fuelled turmoil she was about to cause down below. Being a spotty teenager, you only notice two things in these circumstances and there they were, in all their glory.

Let me, dear reader, piece together my scant memories of what I witnessed. She was around forty, certainly no older, slim build that suggested that she worked out, definitely a bottle blonde and the biggest pair of top bollocks that any of us had seen on any woman, ever.

One by one, squadron members realised what was going on, and the parade became a sea of stupid grins and muffled laughter. From my position at the back, it appeared that the CO was saluting not the flag of our nation, so recently glorious in South Atlantic conflict against the Argie foe, rather a magnificent pair of 40DD bazongas in an upstairs window.

It was at that moment she took her towel and gave both mammaries a vigorous, circular rub, ending with her giving both nips a little tweak. They wobbled like Alan Sugar sitting on a jelly, and from the looks of things, she seemed to find this most satisfying. The entire squadron broke ranks, laughing, clapping and cheering.

She screamed. She dropped her towel, to reveal a bush that resembled a large, black fluffy poodle nestling in her lap and whipped the curtains shut. See? I told you she wasn’t a natural blonde.

The following week we turned up at the Drill Hall to find a “For Sale” sign on the house opposite. Can’t think why. Mystery naked woman, we never knew your name. But thanks for the mammaries.

Length? Bigger by the minute.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 28 May 2009, 15:09, 1 reply)

I'd like to think
that the theme tune to 'Rocky' was playing in the background as this happened.
( Funkenschlag still likes dogs more than cats, Fri 29 May 2009, 10:37, closed)