She was a Helicopter Goatperson, and her knees bore the scars of the Holiday Rep tribe. She had a chest like the tied first place in the marrow-growing contest at our village fete a few summers ago. It was the one where the vicar had to go for a lie-down after handing over the trophy. It took both the scoutmaster and three of the more zealous of his troop to bring the vicar back to his fully-erect self.
Anyway, this Helicopter Goatperson* was standing, legs apart directly across the narrow jungle track I was stumbling down. The first thing I noticed about her was that she was naked, except, of course, for a looped belt of machine gun ammunition over her left shoulder (no doubt intended for use in the large calibre machine gun she held nonchalantly in her right hand.
The second thing I noticed about her was that she was naked.
The third thing I noticed about her was that she was naked.
*So-called because of the dastardly tricks they got up to during the CIA-inspired counter-insurgency period. It is said, by way of example; that some of those once-brave revolutionaries still cannot bear to be in the same room as even a small slice of goat cheese.
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