Anyway, there we were. She had the tennis racquet, of course... but we won't go into that, not before the watershed anyway.
Still, as the typical British weather is pouring down, it is possibly safe to assume that whatever amount of water constitutes the aforesaid watershed. At least, that amount has already been shed this morning. Therefore we are safe to continue with this promenade through the outer suburbs of what is regarded as both the rude and the naughty with little chance of interruption. Especially any interruption from those who like to think they know what is best for everyone.
Just why so many people think it is any of their business what others get up to. Or, that it is for them to stipulate which of those doings has their approval or not, we will leave to one side for a while. At least for as long as it takes to mention that she is rather adept with the tennis racquet, but – as we are civilised people – not for tennis obviously.
We are not that weird.
Anyway, there she stood, naked and proud and with the tennis racquet in a standard two-handed grip. She, of course, following the standard rules of Naughty Tennis was standing on the kitchen by-line, awaiting my service.
Of course, Naughty Tennis is always best played in the domestic setting. Except, of course, when there is something good on the telly. For then, the players can easy be distracted by Downton-esque plot twists during the vital match point manoeuvres, especially if it is their turn with the raspberry-flavoured jelly.
Anyway, I had the bag of marshmallows at the ready and my racquet was poised too.
But then she remembered a couple of VAT Invoices she had not filed correctly. So instead of Naughty |Tennis we went off to play a game of sexy VAT Inspector instead, which was good because it was my turn with the buff envelopes.
[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]
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