Boobed

Even though he has been there seven years or more, I don’t know the man who lives next door. I have some facts: he is older than me, rides a bike and wears an apologetically bushy beard. I have long supposed that he drinks real ale, eats whole grains, and nods wisely at the mention of Faust. That was my first impression of him and in the absence of other information, it has stuck. We always nod to each other, and say ‘Hello’, all timed to my going out to the car and him wheeling out his bicycle.


This evening, 9.10pm and still light, I was dropping Nina over to her best friend’s house. I saw the man next door. ‘Hello’, I said, with a broad smile. I am in up-beat mood, Nina is recovering well from her operation but is off sick from work, I’ve been enjoying her company. ‘Hello’, he smiled back, and then, as eye contact broke, his face faltered, sights fixed a few inches below my chin. Then, I remembered. I was wearing an old tee shirt, pink, a little tight and underneath; no bra.

Oh dear. Things will never be the same.