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Skinny Minnie


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This is one of my stories. What do people think of it?


********************SKINNY MINNIE (Part 1)********************


It's a gorgeous summer's day. Hot,hot,hot! In a little valley up on

the moors in Southwest England the water sparkles, the trees are lush

with leaf, insects and birds and the grass is still a living, vibrant

green. In a week or two if the heatwave continues, which is far from

guaranteed, the grass will have been dried to a crisp honey-brown, but

not yet. For now it's green, green everywhere.


There is a figure walking lazily along the far bank, passing dreamily

from one patch of dazzling sunlight to another via the deep shadows of

the ash, beech and sycamore trees. As the person draws nearer, what

was at first just a promising haze of shaggy blonde hair around an

ununfocused visage, defines itself slowly, but certainly into the

features of a pretty, young woman. The face is especially of note,

however, because of a certain oriental quality about the eyes. They

have a typically distinct narrow slant to them and are darkly

coloured, which is in direct contrast to the woman's hair. Of course

that could be dyed, but it's not a bottle-blonde and if it has been,

then it's done well enough to look completely natural.


Now, if you're a standard bloke, the first thing you do the moment you

can take your eyes off that face, which because of its pleasing nature

might be a fraction after the quarter of one second it normally takes

you, is to drop your gaze and check out her breasts... Uh-oh!

Something's wrong! The face resides above a tall, fashion-model-type

skinny body, (great!), but when you look, and it's easy to see because

she's wearing a skin-tight, white tee-shirt, there aren't any breasts!

Let's be quite precise about this. This person doesn't have small

breasts like, say, Calista Flockhart, this person has absolutely no

breasts whatsoever! She is totally and utterly, completely and

entirely flat-chested! In fact, because of the extremely close fit of

her thin, cotton tee, you can actually see the slight undulation made

by the set of her ribs and the dips inbetween. And rising just the

tiniest fraction from that oh-so-flat and breastless chest, there is

the faintest hint of shadow where the nipples stand perhaps two or

three milimetres high.


Is it actually a man? No, don't be stupid, it can't be. You check out

the face again, the body, the hips... There, the hips are narrow, but

still tell the truth, in their figure-hugging black jeans it is most

unmistakably the body of a woman. But is she still a girl, a child? Oh

my god! Have you been eyeing-up some jail-bait?!... No, no, thank

goodness! She is directly opposite now, some four yards away accross

the water and you can see quite easily she's an adult. Young, yet

mature, some life-experience, even some sorrow, shines clearly from

those deep, dark eyes. definitely well into her twenties you decide,

even mid-to-late twenties. Let's say she is twenty-seven years old.


Your eyes scan the woman's figure for just a moment longer and the a

decision is made. There is something very alluring about this woman

and further to this you're intrigued by her wistful air, the hint of

some pain endured, which returns you to the face now finally looking

back at you. And of course one must be neighbourly, this is where you

live. You call out your greeting accross the stream...


STOP! Oh dear, oh dear! Hold on! Wait! It's not YOU there, it's ME!

But never mind, don't worry, I will make the introduction for you.

Please keep watching and we shall see how it goes...



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********************SKINNY MINNIE (Part 2)********************


"Good afternoon," I begin, perhaps a little too formerly, but what

else can an Englishman possibly say? Anyway, to make up for this I

continue with a generous smile that I hope's both pleasing in

appearance and friendly in manner.


It seems to work, because after a moment during which her eyes quickly

take in the whole of me from head-to-toe and back again, (so, snap! We

have both checked each other out), she returns with a rather less

staid, if slightly timid, "Hi." This in turn is followed by a smile of

her own, but alas, it lasts for only a second and then falters. The

fault for this, however, is not mine, at least not directly.


At the same instant her smile began, she also started to raise her

arms and fold them in front of her perfectly flat and breastless

chest. It was this apparently subconscious move that caused her

distraction and which has now brought about her sternly concerned



Aware of what she's done, she at once lowers her barricade. But this

action also falters and for a second or two the young woman's arms

hover, neither up nor down, then jerk back to a protective posture and

finally, as if by some great force of will, are lowered once more to

where they extend stiffly at her sides. She sees now that because of

this I am of course staring at her chest. Sorrowfully, her own gaze

falls toward the water and her elegantly hollowed cheeks turn a

delicate shade of crimson.


However, I don't see this as I am indeed staring at that part of her

which she could not help herself but try to hide from me. And

incredibly, I am finding that this female breastless chest is turning

me on in the most astonishing manner. Never before in my whole life

have I felt such a strong and impulsive sexual attraction to anyone or

anything. It is in fact a moment of profound self-revelation. Suddenly

and quite ridiculously, you probably think, the words enter my head: I

want to marry you! Of course I say no such thing, but only continue to

admire what has so unexpectedly and so completely become my heart's



The woman must by now be thoroughly embarrassed. How many times in her

life would she have been rejected by possible suitors because of the

very thing that I have fallen in love with? What incredible bravery

did it take for her to go out for a walk dressed in a manner that did

not conceal the way that she is? Never mind that this is an extremely

remote area and that nine times out of ten it would have resulted in

no chance encounter with another person. What strength of resolve did

it take for her to decide I am the way I am and I'm proud of it? But

then when she did happen upon someone else and that person did happen

to be a man with passable looks who smiled warmly and kindly at her so

as to light the fire that such chance meetings are apt to light, why

then did she have to of all things immediately bring attention to what

would surely make him run a mile before he even stopped to take a

breath? And oh, how she hoped he would run that mile right now.

Please! Quickly! Don't prolong this agony. Just say good day and go!

She screams inside her head. But the man does not, no word comes from

accross the babbling stream, for unbeknown to her, I am still utterly

transfixed by the wonderful beauty that is this totally flat-chested



And so, in despair, rejecting herself before he has the chance to do

it himself, and without raising her gaze to look upon what must surely

be his disgust, the woman silently turns away...



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********************SKINNY MINNIE (Part 3)********************


Trance-like, I see the body of this young woman turn and move slowly,

gracefully, and still, I am only filled with delight as I watch this

perfect figure, as it seems, twist and dance before my eyes. Thus it

is with a rather late, sudden desperation that I actually realise she

is leaving.


"Oh!" I cry out, but can only add and somewhat feebly, "Nice to have

met you..."


The blonde head half-turns back toward me and, perhaps recognising at

least the friendly tone of my words, risks one final smile. I then

notice for the first time she is blushing and like a fool and being

far too polite for my own good, I avert my gaze, for I feel to look

directly at someone who is embarrassed is terribly rude. I allow some

time to pass and when I look up again to offer my name, to further our

introduction, she is lost, already several yards away along the bank.

Half of me wants to rush after her, to call out, to jump into and wade

accross the water. But I don't. The other half knows that that would be

improper and all of my upbringing holds me mistakenly in place as I

watch this once-in-a-lifetime meeting dissolve into gold, into green,

into nothing.




It is evening now, three hours after that chance encounter and I am at

home in my kitchen cooking dinner. Of course I am still thinking about

that beautiful flat-chested woman, I have thought about absolutely

nothing else since. I don't even know her name, but in my head I have

christened her "Skinny Minnie." While I wash and peel the potatoes, I

am singing to myself in a rather toneless voice a little ditty I have

made up: "All I want is Skinny Minnie in my life, All I want is Skinny

Minnie for my wife!" However, every so often reality breaks in and my

chanting ceases. I do realise that I will most probably never see

Skinny Minnie again. I tell myself that she isn't a local, (otherwise

I would certainly already know, or know of her), that thousands of

people come to the moors on holiday each summer and that she obviously

didn't like me anyway, because why else would she have left in such a

hurry? But despite that, I can not help but remember that parting

smile, her flushed cheeks, her full and moistened lips... Those were

not the signs of rejection, oh no, quite the opposite in fact. Why oh

why had I not held those keen dark eyes with my own? What an idiot I

am! I tell myself over and over and then return to my singing, trying

to ward off the leaden feeling that takes hold of my heart each time I

face the truth of the situation.


After I have eaten, I begin work on some sketches for a new picture.

At least being an artist means I can turn my frustration into creating

something positive. I draw a figure, (Skinny Minnie), talking to a

tree on a hot summer's day. After a month's work, the finished picture

will end up with her carrying a spear, the tree having wings and it

being titled, "The Waterer." But for now it is just two scribbled

pencil-line efforts on the back of some old brown-coloured A4

envelopes. By the time I go to bed I am actually pretty happy and,

repeating my little ditty for the umpteenth time, I retire with the

completely unfounded and absurd belief that I will somehow meet my

Skinny Minnie again.




And here is the picture I drew...


The Waterer


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********************SKINNY MINNIE (Part 4)********************


The following day I go for a walk. I wait until after lunch which is

hard, but hey, we met yesterday in the afternoon so there is

absolutely no point in going at anyother time. Of course I set off

directly for the stream. Why? Because it is so beautiful there? Who

am I kidding, not even myself. My pace is brisk to rapid and I'm

hardly looking at those oh-so-beautiful surroundings as I charge

toward the scene of our accidental rendezvous...


Did I really and truthfully expect her to be there? Remarkable as an

indication of the depths of my stupidity, eighty-five percent of me

did. Oh well, I'm all of one hundred percent disappointed. Never

mind, I tell myself as I check my watch, I'm almost an hour early!


I wander downstream perhaps a hundred yards to where two large

boulders jut in from either bank to form a narrow gap of no more

than five-and-a-half feet. In the winter the water is a raging

torrent through this tiny gorge and one has to summon up quite some

nerve to jump from one wet and slippery rock to the other despite

the relatively short distance between them. However, now, during the

height of this long, dry summer, there is barely an eighteen inch

swell at the crossing point.


So now I'm on Skinny Minnie's side of the river, heading back

upstream to where she first appeared. Right at the point where she

stopped and we exchanged that briefest of greetings, I sit down in

the sunlight, feet dangling down toward the sparkling water's

surface and begin my wait. At first I am distracted by the small

black fish that dart with surprising speed from one patch of water-

weed to another. Heron and kingfisher are regular predators around

here, but one has to wonder how they ever catch anything when their

prey can swim so incredibly fast. Damsel flies with electric-blue

bodies and dark-blue, dark-red, or black wings dance gracefully

before me in joined mating pairs, dipping down repeatedly toward the

sluggishly flowing stream to lay their eggs. A swarm of midges seem

to bounce up and down on the water as if attached to elastic

strings. Thankfully, they keep to the well-shaded areas beneath a

large beech tree and don't trouble me out here, slowly cooking under

the relentless summer sun.


Fifteen minutes of that heat is all I can bear and then I have to

take refuge along with the midges in the cool green shade of the

trees. Grubs up! They must all cheer to one another because I am at

once feasted upon by numerous scores of these tiny blood-sucking

flies. When they approach withing a few inches of my head, I can

hear the extremely high-pitched whining they make which induces in

me a panic disproportionate to their annoyance. Repeatedly I slap my

own face where I can sense the tickling caused by their feeding.

Each time my palm comes away with five, six, or seven small dark

smudges. But no matter how many pay the ultimate price for their

dinner, there are always more of them to take their place. This is

intolerable, far worse than the roasting I was getting before.

Defeated, I scramble up and make a dash for it, both arms whirling

about in order to fend off the chasing squadron of my assailants.

And as soon as I return to the light, my enemies disengage. I look

back menacingly at the unconcerned swarm that is now once again

immitating a crowd of miniature bungee jumpers over the shaded

section of the river. I look at my watch. Still thirty-five minutes

to go before this imagined second meeting with Skinny Minnie.


I set off again upstream in the direction from which she approached

the day before. Gradually the woodland trees give way to scrub-

willow, may and blackthorn and then finally gorse. After I've

covered about a couple miles I'm out onto the open moor looking

accross an uninterrupted panorama of rolling grass-covered hills

strewn about with great granite boulders and the occasional wind-

stunted hawthorn. In the far distance two mountains rise up into the

perfect blue sky. I stand there beaming with delight at this

wonderful view and then check my watch again to see how I'm doing.

Oh no! It's taken me all of half an hourto get here and now I've

only got five minutes to return to our meeting point! Hold on, I

tell myself in a moment of rare rationality. There is no set time

for her to be there, she probably won't even take another walk down

by the river if she's here on holiday and so what are you panicking

for? But despite knowing that the whole thing is absurd, I can not

help myself but hurry back downhill, every so often breaking into a

gradient-assisted trot. Thus it takes me just over half as long to

retun and I'm back where I started only ten minutes late. I am not




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You should be a narrator, nice stories.

Thanks Ailec, perhaps I am. I'm so pleased you're enjoying it. And so the story continues...


***********************SKINNY MINNIE (Part 5)*****************


Up ahead I can hear childrens' voices, laughing, shouting, the sound

of playing - splashing in the river. Then I glimpse one of them, a

small boy perhaps seven or eight years old, running along the water's

edge. And as my eyes follow the path he is taking, I spot two adults -

the parents - half hidden by the greenery, seated there in the same

patch of sunlight where I had waited earlier. Between them is a rug of

dark maroon with a collection of plastic bowls at its centre and maybe

four or more, (I can not see clearly), paper plates around its edge.

The mother is dishing out food from the containers and the father

shouts out that the picnic is ready. Another two children suddenly

appear as if from nowhere, but obviously from the stream as they are

both wet through. Again boys, but elder than the other by several

years. I immediately get the picture that this couple had two children

and were happy, but then after half a decade, probably the mother

wanted another, was really hoping for a little girl this time, but...


I am somewhat annoyed by their presense. This no longer feels like a

place where Skinny Minnie would venture. I am absolutely sure she

would not like somewhere so busy, I mean, that's two lots of visitors

in two days! From my unnoticed vantage point twenty yards upstream, I

stare at them accussingly in much the same fashion as I did to the

midges and with much the same result. Then I turn away and, taking a

large detour around the unwanted company, I wander slowly back to the

crossing and on home, still vainly hoping that I might encounter my

very beautiful and perfectly flat-chested heart's desire.


The next couple of days are spent in an art frenzy! Once I get in the

mood and start working on a picture, nothing else matters. Meals are

missed, chores are left undone, I don't even take the time to go to

bed, falling asleep right there where I'm working, only to wake after

a few hours and carry right on with it. Of course I am still thinking

of Skinny Minnie, I am making this picture of her, but this is

replacement therapy. In my mind I now realise that we won't meet

again, I've come to terms and accepted it. At least that is what I

tell myself... only it isn't quite true. My conscious, intellectual

self understands, but inside, right at the core of me where there is

only animal need, where there is only animal desire, I have only one

vision... and that is of her.


By the third day the art frenzy is over, I'm exhausted and I need a

rest before I carry on with the picture. Besides, it's my shopping

day, the day I drive into town and buy what I need - food and

household goods - and then buy what I want - usually books and dvds. I

shave and take a bath and dress in smart clothes. I scrub-up quite

well and am considered to be handsome by those who've ever offered an



The lane from my house is very narrow and winding and only wide enough

for one vehicle at a time. It is bordered either side by high, stone

hedges of grey granite that have passing bays set into them every few

hundred yards. Having driven only a quarter of a mile and still along

side my garden which lies behind the hedge on the left, I encounter my

first on-coming traffic. It is a large, black horse, whose rider seems

to be having some problem keeping the skittish animal under control.

At once I pull into the bay that is luckily just ahead of me and turn

off the car's engine. This seems to help, for the very fine-looking

and gleaming black mount quietens down and its rider is able to spur

it forward toward my now dormant red monster. As they approach, I look

up from the beautiful stallion for the first time in order to nod my

greeting at its rider, but can hardly believe my eyes. The rider is

even more beautiful than the horse! The rider is SKINNY MINNIE!!!



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************************SKINNY MINNIE (Part 6)****************


Acting quickly and determined not to miss this incredible second

chance that somehow has arisen, my finger finds the button to lower

the driver's side-window. Nothing happens! I press harder, but of

course there is still no response. When I turned off the engine I

must have rotated the key fully left and now all the electrics are

off as well. Meanwhile, Skinny Minnie's ride has drawn level with

the front of the car and will have passed me by in just one second.

Desperately I fumble for the ignition without taking my eyes away

from my prize, remembering all too well what happened last time I

broke eye-contact. The key is between my fingers. Gently I turn it

one click right, careful to avoid the disaster that would befall if

the great rumbling engine fired with the horse right along side it.

I don't know why, but in my panic I'm expecting the window to lower

directly as a result of my turning of the key. Of course it doesn't.

Skinny Minnie is right above me now where I sit low down in my

machine and I hear her voice call out: "Thank you." (For turning off

the car's engine). My finger finally returns to the button for the

window and this time it descends even as the glistening black

crature has taken one stride beyond the point where I can

comfortably address its rider.


"Hello again!" I shout at the back of Skinny Minnie's head. Inwardly

I cringe. To myself, my voice sounds breathless and way too loud,

after all, she's only gone a yard by me. Thankfully two things

happen, or rather, one thing doesn't happen and one thing does, both

of them good. Firstly, my raised voice has not scared the horse,

which it easily could have, and secondly, Skinny Minnie halts her

ride, looks back over her shoulder and smiles at me. My eyes fix

upon those full, red, wide-smiling lips and I feel myself totally

melt inside. Oh my, I really am in love. And then a third thing

happens which is more than I could have hoped for and is even better

than the first two. Skinny Minnie is reining back her great, black

horse. Gracefully it high-steps backward until its rider is once

again above my now fully-opened driver's side-window.


I gaze up at her somewhat puppy-eyed. "We met... three days ago down

by the river," I explain, pretending that it was something she might

not remember. And perhaps she doesn't, after all, hadn't she hurried

away without hardly a word?


"Yes," she smiles. She does remember and, oh, she's blushing again!

Almost I divert my gaze as before, but no, not this time. Instead,

with just the briefest snatch of a glance at her beautiful flat-

chested figure, I force myself to maintain eye-contact. Skinny

Minnie is wearing a black, quilted, sleeveless wind-breaker over a

black tee-shirt, which does nothing to reveal her perfect form, but

instead actually conceals it. However, I recall very well her oh-so-

sexy breastless-chest and just the thought of it has me blushing

too! And now my eyes do fall, not to save her embarrassment, but my

own. Her lower half is clothed in skin-tight white riding trousers

and black riding boots, but my gaze does not linger there for she is

speaking... speaking to me!


"You live at the big house down by the river, don't you?"


Wow! Skinny Minnie knows where I live! "Er... yes," is all I can

manage in return, now held by those narrowly slanted, dark eyes that

peer out from below the brim of her black velvet riding hat.


"I'm at the stables," she continues.


"Oh, Fern Farm?"


"Yes," she confirms.


Fern Farm takes in visitors for riding holidays on the Moor each

summer, but usually they go out treking in groups and always

accompanied by someone. I reason that Skinny Minnie must be an

excellent horsewoman to be out on her own and on such an obviosly

expensive and energetic mount.


"Are you enjoying your holiday," I enquire, secretly meaning how

long are you down here for and where will you be returning to? And

also hoping beyond hope that it's not too far away.


"Holiday?" The rider laughs. "I wish I was!"


"Oh?" My God, is it really that bad down here? But no, that was not

what she meant.


"I'm not on holiday, I've just started as a stable-girl. It's all

work, loads of it!"


I'm sure my jaw actually drops. This is the best news ever! Skinny

Minnie is living down here! Skinny Minnie is living just half a mile

away! Skinny Minnie and myself are neighbours!



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********************SKINNY MINNIE (Part 7)********************


This revelation that my heart's desire is actually a local, if only of

a week's standing, changes everything. Certainly it would not be

improper to ask her over, for it wouldn't be right to be unfriendly to

a newcomer. My mind is racing: Ask her! ASK HER! It screams at me, my

blood thumping through my head in a percussive accompaniment to my


"Oh well," I say, trying to sound as casual as I can, for this is it,

the pivotal moment, the line I am casting out to her in hope of a

bite. "If you have a moment free, do come over. I'll give you the

grand tour around the estate, though in truth it's not much really..."


Skinny Minnie sits up above me in judgement upon her fine black horse.

Luckily she can not see my hands, for suddenly now they are trembling

nervously upon the steering-wheel. I grip it harder, but this only

transfers the shaking up to my arms. Has there been a whole second's

silence? I feel doomed. She is thinking. She is frowning. Surely she's

trying to find the right words for a polite rejection. Have all my

fantasies of the last few days been based upon my own desires,

completely unaware that the person they are about feels absolutely

nothing of a similar nature? Of course, I am a fool. After all, we

only met for one minute. Not really even a meeting, just two people

passing by on opposite banks of the river. And she is so beautiful,

who am I kidding? Only myself as usual...


When I hear her words, I realise that I am staring at the toe of her

riding boot which is at my eye-level. "I'm pretty sure I've got a day

off on Thursday... I could come over in the afternoon if that's ok?"


Did she really just say that?! I look up... Oh my, she's smiling at me

with that heart-melting smile. Skinny Minnie's coming over to my place

on Thursday! Skinny Minnie!! Skinny Minnie I love you!!! That is what

I really want to say, but somehow I respond in a more appropriate

manner. "Yes, that would be great!" And I know I probably sound way

too eager, but I'm so excited I don't even care. My heart has un-

melted and is pounding rapidly in my chest. I can't think of anything

else to say. The horse is becoming impatient, getting frisky again. It

tries to move forward, but is held in check by the reins. Instead, it

side-steps away from my car and lets out a loud indignant snort. Its

beautiful rider is having to work hard now to keep it under control.


"See you then," she smiles at me, somewhat distracted by her

disobedient beast. She urges it to walk on.


"Oh," I cry, "You don't know my name."


"Yes I do," she tells me back over her shoulder as the great, black

stallion carries her further away. "You're Daniel, the artist." She

seems to be able to speak and smile and laugh all at the same time and

once again my eyes focus upon those two beautiful, full, soft lips.

Her ride breaks into a trot, the clicking of its hooves loud upon the

tarmac. Skinny Minnie knows my name, she knows what I do and she knows

where I live! I feel honoured, but somewhat bemused by it all. I am

just about to turn away when her voice calls out: "I'm Emily!"


Skinny Minnie is called Emily. Emily's real name is Skinny Minnie.

These are the two sentences, the two thoughts that fill my head. Of

course the first is true and the second I have made up because it is

my truth, it is true in my world. Whatever happens on Thursday,

whether it is the last time we ever meet, or whether all my dreams

come true and we spend the rest of our lives together in love, Emily

will always be Skinny Minnie to me.



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********************SKINNY MINNIE (Part Eight)******************


It's Wednesday and I'm a nervous wreck. I can't concentrate on

anything. I sit in my library and try to read, but end up just

leafing through the fashion magazines of which I have an ample

supply. In Vogue I see a picture of a Chineese-style, high-collared

evening-dress that is a slinky-sparkly black and embroidered with a

sinuous, glittering red dragon that coils around the model's tall,

slender body. She looks fantastic and reminds me of Skinny Minnie,

but in my mind is not quite as beautiful, nor as flat-chested. The

fool in me is very tempted to buy the dress and have it delivered

ready for tomorrow. But that would be ridiculous, I've been in

relationships before and I know that you really can't buy love.


I move from the library to the music room, but Mrs Cooper who comes

to help out on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays is cleaning in there.

I feel enclosed. There is nothing I want to do inside and decide to

go into the garden and plant something. Not that the middle of the

summer and in the middle of a heatwave is the ideal time for

planting-out, but I need to do something physical or I'll go crazy.

I take one of the back-stirways, the one which leads to the

ballroom. As is my custom, I climb up onto the stage and cry

out, "Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your elbows!" The

particular body-part changes with each of my infantile performances.

Then I leap off from the front and stride purposefully down the

length of the great, empty room toward the three sets of French-

windows which line its far end.


Outside, I head for the nursery and hope that Tom the gardener is

not there. Please don't misunderstand me, Tom is an absolutely

wonderful fellow, but without any shadow of a doubt he would be very

annoyed that I am going to plant out one, (and maybe two, or three),

of HIS plants that he has grown from HIS cuttings or seeds at

completely the wrong time of year. My friends would laugh at me for

being worried by what the gardener thought. Isn't it my home and my

garden? Of course, but Tom's been here for decades. He was my

mother's gardener and his father worked for my grandfather before

that. So there is almost seventy years of family history here. When

he's put out by the, (foolish), things I do, he still addresses me

as "young Master Daniel" as though I were still a child. And of

course that is exactly how I feel whenever I'm with him.

Fortunately, he is elsewhere on the estate and, hurridly taking a

nearby barrow, I load it with a holm oak, two shrubs a bucket of

compost, trowel, spade and a watering-can which I fill from one of

the large, circular collection tanks. Then, feeling as guilty as a

thief, I set off quickly to loose myself somewhere well away from

the formal gardens which surround the house.


I spend a very long, hot and happy afternoon planting my little

selection and wandering about, occasionally tending to things that

require attention. I don't encounter Tom at all, for which I am,

(guiltily), thankful. I have found that by staying well away from

HIS flowers, I can remain in the garden for days and yet quite

easily avoid him!


At about six-thirty I return to the house to start preparing dinner.

When I was a child we had a live-in housekeeper who was a wonderful

cook. But she passed away only a month after my mother and I never

replaced her. Although in many ways it would be sensible to do so, I

have become very territorial about the house. If Tom rules the place

outside, at least I am still Lord within! Having Mrs Cooper come and

clean three days a week is as much as I tolerate nowadays.


So far I've kept myself busy all day, but I know that if I stop then

toughts and worries about Skinny Minnie's visit will start to

overwhelm me. So, after I've eaten, I settle down and start watching

films selected from my dvd collection. By the end of the third, it's

one-thirty in the morning and I can hardly keep my eyes open. It is

all I can do now to get myself into bed, knowing that when I awake,

the great day will have finally dawned.



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**********************SKINNY MINNIE (Part 9)******************


I open my eyes and stare at the red digits of my bedside clock. It

is five a.m. I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep. I open my

eyes for the second time to find it is now five-twenty a.m. "Bloody

hell," I moan and pull the thick, soft duvet up from below my waist

until it comes right over my head. Immediately I am way too hot. I

kick the duvet off and onto the floor, turn over and try to settle.

When I awake for the third time, I am relieved to find it is half-

past-eight. After I've slowly shaved, showered and breakfasted, it

is a much more respectable ten-thirty and I'm ready to begin my day.


There is absolutely no way that I'm going to be able to concentrate

on my artwork with the impending visit by Skinny Minnie due this

afternoon. Instead, I make for the music room where I sit myself

down at one of the two pianos that are set side by side, but facing

in opposite directions, and which form the central feature of the

room. For long periods I am able to looses myself in sound. To be

honest, I don't play particularly well. In fact a friend once said

that if I lived at Hogwarts then all the figures in the pictures in

here would have their hands placed firmly over their ears! But

nevertheless, I am totally absorbed by my amateurish attempts and

the racket that it produces. I only stop when I am surprised by the

clanging of the brass bell that tells me someone is at the front

door. My first thought is that it's the postman with a parcel that

needs signing for. Probably some books I've recently purchased over

the internet. It is not uncommon for him to deliver out here anytime

up to midday and when I look at my watch I am expecting it to be

around eleven-thirty or so. "Oh my!" It's ten-to-three in the

afternoon! I've been playing the piano for more than four hours!


As I rush for the main stairs that descend in a wide, graceful sweep

down to the entrance hall, there is a small part of me that feels

somewhat annoyed that I haven't yet had my lunch. However, there is

also another much bigger, extremely excited part of me that is

screaming inside my head: It's Skinny Minnie! It's SKINNY MINNIE! I

leap down the final five steps and run for the lobby. By the time I

reach the doors, I'm moving so fast I have to do a skid-stop to

prevent myself colliding into them. Breathless, I unbolt both sides

and grabbing the handles, pull them open in dramatic fashion.


Skinny Minnie stands a little way back and to my right beside one of

the stone porticoes. The house faces south and so she is sunlit from

behind. Dressed all in white - a collarless, pearl-buttoned, long-

sleeved shirt, skinny-jeans and trainers - it appears as though she

is completely surrounded by a golden aura. She smiles at me with her

wonderful soft, wide mouth and those dark, slanting eyes gitter like

black diamonds set within a blinding white fire. Light is bouncing

off, though and about her mass of shaggy, blonde hair and gives the

exact impression of a perfect, brilliant halo. How could she appear

any other way? For she does indeed have the face, (not to mention

the body), of an angel.


"Hi," she says while I'm still staring dumbstuck at my heavenly



"Hello Ski- er, Emily," I just about manage, eyes still wide with

disbelief at just how incredibly stunning a woman is stood before

me. She takes a step forward and my inertia is broken. "Come in," I

tell her, letting go of both handles and moving aside to let her

enter. I watch my guest as she passes through the lobby. At the

moment she is side-on to me, it is once again confirmed that Skinny

Minnie is perfectly, totally and very, very beautifully flat-

chested. My heart is racing. She continues on into the marble-

floored, high-ceilinged entrance hall and my eyes linger happily for

a second or two upon her tightly-clothed, cute little behind. I turn

to close the front doors and even as they bang shut and the bright

sunlight is cut off, I hear her exclamation at what she finds.


"Wow!" She cries out, "You live in a palace!"



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**********************SKINNY MINNIE (Part 10)*****************


"No, no," I laugh, "not really." I'm standing, watching my gorgeous

visitor turn three-hundred and sixty degrees in my hall, her eyes

wide with disbelief at what for her is the splendour of my home, but

for myself is merely the everyday.


"Do you live here alone?" She inquires with a hint of mirth in her

voice which suggests that although she asked the question, the idea

is patently ridiculous.


"Well, yes I do," I confess, laughing with her at this seemingly

unbelievable situation.


"But don't you get lost?!" She demands, perhaps seriously, perhaps

in jest.


"Ah, well, you're right there, especially along the upper floor corridors."


The house does require a bit of getting used to. There are a great number of rooms set over four floors, with four staircases, three major halls and several

passageways , both formal and secret! My favourite runs underground out to the stables and was originally built as an escape route during the Civil War."


"No," she informs me, her face completely deadpan. "I didn't mean in

the house, I was just talking about here in this hall!"


I laugh out loud again. "No," I assure her, "I never get lost in my

entrance hall!"


Skinny Minnie shakes her head as if what she hears can't be true.


"Would you like some tea?" I ask her. "The drawing-room's just along



"You mean the sitting-room," she smiles cheekily.


"Yes," I blush, not because I've used a term that is probably a

little old-fashioned, but because I'm suddenly overwhelmed by the

attractiveness of her slightly mischievous attitude.


I guide my guest accross to where the east-hall opens off to the

right and from which my drawing room is the first on the south-side.


"You know I want to see every single room," she tells me, "and the

stables and the gardens and... and anything else there is to see!

You promised to give me a grand-tour."


"Good grief!" I reply in mock-horror. "You're not thinking of putting in an offer for the old heap, are you?"


Skinny Minnie stares at me for a moment and then her face breaks into a smile.


"Oh, no," she responds, "It's far too much for me, I'd have to share!!!"




It has taken almost three hours to show off the estate to my

beautiful supermodel-bodied and filmstar-faced companion. We are

returning now toward the house through the formal flower-gardens and

the still warm, but no longer fiercely hot evening sunshine is full

of buzzing bees, flitting butterflies and the scent of the roses

which we are passing. She pauses beside one flower-festooned shrub,

placing her right hand gently upon my left arm. It is the first time

that we have touched. The thrill is incredible. Skinny Minnie has

been very enthusiastic about everything she has seen, friendly and

actually somewhat flirtatious. I, of course, have been the perfect

gentleman, which is to say that I have been far too reserved. Why is

that so? Why can't I touch her in the same friendly way that she now

touches me? Even as she bends forward to bring her face to the

welcoming pink blossom, I feel constricted, almost to the point of

bursting with all the passion built up inside of me. I am head-over-

heels in love with this woman and it is quite obvious that she, at

the very least, fancies me also. But to every little advance she has

made through this perfect afternoon, I have responded too cooly.

Naturally, I am polite, I am friendly, but why, oh why can't I show

her how I truly feel? If this goes on, she will think, and quite

understandably, that my invitation was just good-neighbourliness and

nothing else. Will this day pass by and I have blown this fabulous

chance that fate has given me? I remember standing by the river and

watching Skinny Minnie fade away into the golden-green light of the

wooded-bank. No, no, no! I will not let that happen again! With a

trembling hand, I reach out and very gently, very lightly, as if she

were something most fragile, lay my palm softly upon Skinny Minnie's

white-shirted back. My breath is held, my body tensed. I am ready to

withdraw, to recoil, to appologise, to say goodbye, to let her go.

How I stop myself from closing my eyes in fear, I just don't know.

And in that state of absolute panic, I watch my desire's blonde head

turn toward me from the depth of the scented rose and... and smile

that most brilliantly heart-melting smile. I think my breathing

returns with a gasp.


"Come, smell this flower," she implores me. "It's fabulous!"


I lean forward to bury my nose into a blossom adjacent to hers,

necessarily removing my hand from the small of her back to do so.

But as I draw in a great lungful of the indeed beautifully smelling

rose and while blinded to all else by the flower before me , I feel

that hand taken hold of by another, smaller and more delicate than

my own. My heart is thumping in my chest like a tremendous booming

base-drum! I can't believe it!! I'm sure I'm going to faint!!!




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