Girl's LOVE

[kiasusam]

We hurriedly vacated our sumptuous room and its even more sumptuous bed, dumping our bags in the hall and making breakfast with 20 minutes to spare. I had been expecting a cool if not hostile welcome but the waitress couldn't have been nicer. Smiling all the while, she showed us to a table and asked if we'd slept well.

'Like logs,' Dave assured her.

The cheerful waitress told us she'd fetch coffee, tea and toast, after which it was self-service. 'Feel free to have whatever you want,' she said. 'You can go back as many times as you like. And make sure you try the Cumberland sausage. It's to die for.'

'Cumberland sausage is all curled around itself,' Dave said when she'd gone. 'So you can wipe that saucy grin right now.'

'I'm not grinning about sausages,' I replied, 'be they phallic-shaped or not. I'm grinning about us sleeping like logs. I bet I didn't get five hours' sleep all night.'

We could have opted for cereal but, conscious of the need to refuel, we piled plates high with sausage, eggs and bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes and baked beans. Then, after demolishing every last morsel, we went back for more sausage, mushrooms and beans.

'This has to last us to teatime,' Dave said when I hesitated between platefuls. 'Lunch will be a Mars bar washed down with Lucozade.'

I'd bagged the key as we vacated the room. Knowing there weren't any extra charges to pay, I checked us out while Dave took a comfort break.

It was the same receptionist as it had been on Saturday. She seemed to have contracted the same smiling virus as our waitress.

OMG, I thought as she tapped away on her keyboard, she knows what we've been doing! They all do!

Then, smiling a bit myself: So what if they do? I'm proud, not ashamed.

'I'm impressed,' the receptionist said. 'You haven't even added a bar tab.'

'I'm not so virtuous,' I grinned. 'I paid cash for our drinks.'

She printed out a receipt that confirmed we'd already settled in full. 'Did you enjoy your stay?' she asked as she passed it to me. 'More to the point, did you enjoy your night in that four-poster bed?'

'It was superb,' I said. 'The stay and the bed.'

'I dream of spending a night in there myself.' The girl had gone all misty-eyed.

'I suppose it's booked for tonight,' I asked on the off-chance.

'It's booked-up for months. You were very lucky yesterday.'

'Kismet,' I said.

Dave's car was waiting where we'd left it on Saturday morning. We put our travel bags in its small boot and our backpacks on the rear seat. Before starting the engine Dave looked at me closely.

'She fancies you.'

'Who does?'

'That receptionist. She was nearly drooling.'

'Dave,' I said, 'I honestly didn't notice.

[kiasusam]

And I don't fancy her. In fact I've never fancied another woman in my whole life. Apart from you.'

She smiled at that and we set off, heading uphill, taking the route we'd taken the day before. It was, I have to admit, a lot easier by car than it was on the hoof. Not that I'd suddenly got lazy. I still didn't know exactly where we were going, but Dave had given me some details over the breakfast table.

'It's only about ten miles,' she'd told me. 'There are a lot of ups and downs but the going underfoot is easy enough. We'll be on paths all the way.'

Queried about "titchy mountains", she said most of the ascent happened at the beginning, most of the descent at the end. The most noticeable ups and downs were in the middle where we would be going from peak to peak, conquering seven in all.

I was surprised to see people sitting at some of the tables outside The Kirkstone Pass Inn.

'It doesn't open until eleven,' Dave said as we went by. 'Those are all walkers, having a rest and taking in the view.' Then, as we reached the end of a flattish stretch and started to go downhill: 'Now for The Struggle.'

'What struggle?'

'This hill going down into Ambleside. The locals call it "The Struggle". It's bad enough going down it in a Mini. Imagine fighting your way up it in the olden days. In all weathers. And in a horse and cart, at that.'

'Poor horses,' I said. 'Who'd want to come up here anyway?'

'People wanting slate from one of the quarries, I suppose. And people wanting to go trading in other towns. As well as turning off to Troutbeck and Windermere, you can go straight on to Patterdale and the villages around Ullswater.'

'I'm astounded by the breadth of your knowledge,' I said sincerely. 'I'm an ignoramus when it comes to this part of the world. There again, you are keeping me in the dark.'

'I was keeping schtum because we need to park in Ambleside,' she said patiently, 'and that's not a given. Not at the best of times, and certainly not on a Bank Holiday weekend.'

'Assuming we can park . . .' I prompted

Here's where I confess my memory for names is not immaculate. She told me we were going to (hopefully) do the "something" Horseshoe. I want to say the "Fairground Horseshoe", but it wasn't that. Not quite.

'It's one of the more testing walks,' she said enthusiastically, 'and it's one of the classics.'

'Will I be up to it?' I wondered.

'Of course you will. You sailed up and down that hill yesterday. You have excellent stamina.' Then, perhaps suspecting I wasn't convinced: 'It can be boggy in places, but it hasn't rained in ages, so we'll easily see the areas to avoid. Don't worry, I wouldn't be taking you if I wasn't sure you could do it.'

[kiasusam]

Ambleside was, as Dave had predicted, busy. Busy? The small town was packed. It was also quaint if rather commercial . . . but not at all tacky.

'What's that?' I said excitedly, pointing at a house built on top of a bridge over a stream.

'It's Bridge House. Nowadays it's a National Trust information centre. I think it used to be an apple store.'

'People work in there?' I was amazed. 'Isn't it a bit precarious?'

'It's been there three or four hundred years. It's already come through everything Mother Nature has to throw at it.'

Dave turned into a decent-sized carpark and exclaimed, 'Halleluiah!' as a family of four pulled out of a slot.

'Kismet,' I murmured, casting around, seeing that every other space was taken.

Dave beat me to the pay and display machine and wouldn't accept the handful of coins I tried to press on her.

'Boots on and let's hit the track,' she said.

While I adjusted my backpack I noticed her rooting in the Mini's glove compartment, finally extracting an Ordnance Survey map and a compass on a lanyard. She put the map in her backpack and secured the compass around her neck, in the manner of a school games teacher.

'We won't need either,' she assured me. 'I know the route like the back of my hand.'

'So why bring them?' I asked sceptically.

'Because sudden mists have been known to descend.'

I scowled at that but she was ready for the off. No way was I backing out so away we went, easing a passage through the bustling streets.

Ambleside is, in my opinion, a marvellous place. Every other building seems to be a pub or a restaurant, a B&B or a small hotel. And the bustling pedestrians all had that smiling virus too. The only downside I could find was in those plentiful B&Bs and hotels: every last one of them was displaying a NO VACANCIES sign.

Boo! Hiss!

Fortunately, I knew how holiday areas worked from my two and a half years in Cornwall. If we looked hard enough we would find something, somewhere. Just not there in Ambleside.

Assuming my begging, beseeching and imploring paid off, that was.

Walking in companionable silence, spending more time off the pavement than on, we made our way out of town. Soon we came to an impressive-looking iron gateway. The gates were closed and, judging by the lodge behind them, were protecting a large country estate.

'Here we go,' said Dave, pointing to an almost invisible signpost.

'Are you sure it's a public footpath?'

'That's what it says, isn't it? Come on. Onwards we go.'

We pressed on, starting to go gradually uphill, eventually coming to a kissing gate (where we kissed, naturally!), seeing our first titchy mountain looming ahead of us.

'That's Nab Scar,' Dave said as we broke for air. 'As you can see, the path zigzags all the way up. We won't need crampons and pitons.'
'Klingons?' I echoed, still dizzy from our kiss.

'No, silly, crampons.' She chuckled. 'They're a climbing aid. So too are pitons, although they are frowned upon these days.'

'Climbing,' I said, still holding on to her.

'I've gone right off the idea,' Dave said, her eyes enormous behind her specs. (Don't ask me what colour they were just then; I was hypnotized and in no condition to notice minor details). 'Know what?' she resumed. 'If I didn't think you'd had enough of the outdoor life, I'd call it off tomorrow. Try to get you to stay here with me for another night.'

[kiasusam]

'I will, I will!' I was almost babbling in my excitement. 'Let's have another night. Please let's.'

She grinned at me. 'My, you sound keen.'

'I am keen!' I hugged her even tighter. 'I was going to ask you. When we got to the top of . . . of . . .'

'Nab Scar?'

'Yes. I was going to beg and beseech you for another night. And I don't care if we can't find a proper bed. I'll sleep with you in a tent, if that's what it takes. I . . .' I stopped abruptly, on the verge of spilling out my feelings prematurely.

Dave didn't seem to notice. Or maybe she pretended not to notice. 'We can try Keswick,' she said. 'Keswick is twice the size of Ambleside. And it's about as touristy as you get in the Lake District. I'm sure we'll find somewhere to rest our weary heads.'

We walked on and, while I can't answer for Dave, I was walking on air. Steep gradient? Huh, not that I noticed.

Being truthful as always, I don't remember a lot about that outing. Oh, I remember talking and talking and talking. I just don't remember what we talked about. That was a mutual boon and a mutual failing, I suppose. We're both people persons and natural conversationalists. Or, if you prefer, born windbags, capable of jumping from subject to subject without pausing for breath or thought.

I do remember stopping atop Nab Scar, reminding Dave that this was the site of my planned begging and pleading. She'd looked at me curiously and said, 'You don't have to if you don't want to.'

'Sleep with you,' I said, aghast. 'I do, I do, I do.'

'I don't mean that,' she said levelly. 'Look, you were brilliant last night and even better this morning. But I'll do all the loving if you like. You don't have to live any lies. Not with me.'

'Was I that ham-handed?'

'No! As I said, you're brilliant. I just want us to be open and above-board about everything.'

'I thought you could be both Dave and Davina in bed,' I said, somewhat slyly.

'I can be,' she admitted.

'And does Davina like it as much as Dave does?'

'Yes, she does. More so, if anything.'

'So we're equal in all respects,' I said. Then, unsure if I was going too far, 'I love the taste of you.'

'In that case we really are equal in all respects. Come on, we'd better get moving if we're going to get to Keswick before teatime.'

[kiasusam]

We had started off on paths running through land covered by short, very green grass. Then, as we ascended, grey rock began to break through. And then, as we jumped up and down from peak to peak, we began to see scree. And cairns. Every peak top seemed to have at least one cairn.

Don't ask me our route. I remember Nab Scar and (I think) Heron Pike but, apart from that first one, couldn't tell you which was which. Dave could, of course; she seemed to know every inch of the way intimately. She didn't refer to her map or compass once.

'This is the point of no return,' she told me as we stood on a flattish summit, admiring yet another view. 'It's as far back as it is to go on. Time for our Mars bars and Lucozade.'

That really is as much as I can remember. We didn't fall into any bogs, I'm sure of that. And I didn't break down through blisters or fatigue, I'm sure of that too. Looking back I think that pure, completely fresh air and being together acted on me like a drug. It must have. That was and will always be the best day of my life . . . and I can't remember the details!

Maybe it was too good? Maybe remembering it clearly would blow all my circuits?

Maybe some things are too perfect to properly recall?

I secured somewhere to stay while Dave drove us to Keswick. Thank the Lord for mobiles . . . especially the smart ones. Mine was smart enough to fine somewhere central with resident parking. I couldn't have done it on my own. And I certainly couldn't have done much trudging up and down streets, knocking on doors. I'd survived the horseshoe but my feet were tingling and close to self-combustion.

Interestingly, the BB had only asked for my name and details. I asked for a double room with a double bed, described Dave as "my girlfriend" and . . .

Well, the site accepted us without question.

Chuffed, believing this traditional part of the world was moving with the times, I gave Dave the good news.

'Let's see how the landlady greets us,' she said, in gloomy tones of previous experience.

As it happened the landlady met us with a beaming smile and open arms. 'Here it is,' she said, opening the door to our room. 'Is it all right for you?'

It was small compared to Saturday's digs, but clean and well-presented. We both dutifully said it was ideal.

'Breakfast is seven until nine,' she informed us. 'I lock the front door at ten, but you can have a key if you want to stay out later.'

'I think ten is plenty late for us,' said Dave. 'We've covered quite a lot of ground today.'

'Haven't we just,' I agreed.

'We have a bar,' the landlady went on. 'It doesn't open until seven thirty, after my partner gets home from work. The good news is that we're residential; we can stay open as long as we like.'

'Shower?' I suggested as soon as we were left alone.

Dave grinned. 'Together?'

'But of course.'

[kiasusam]

Keswick has lots of pubs, all of them traditional and over two hundred years old. And all of them were booming that evening. Resisting the temptation to dive into the nearest watering hole, we agreed that breakfast had happened far too long ago; food had to come first. And, as there was a curry house only yards away from our BB . . .

'Do you think I'll get a carnation?' Dave said, grinning.

'You can have mine if they miss you out,' I said, grinning back at her.

The meal followed the pattern set the night before: we ordered two courses and shared our starters, feeding each other off our own forks.

'So,' Dave said as we waited for our mains, 'what do you want to do tomorrow? More walking or something different?'

I leant over the table and said, sotto voce, 'I want to spend the day in bed with you.'

'Sounds good, but we have to be out of our room by eleven. Think of something else.'

'I don't know what goes on around here. You'll have to give me a clue.'

'River rafting,' she began. Then, chuckling at my expression, 'There's the Cumberland Pencil Museum . . .'

'Get out of here.'

'No, honestly. They used to make the best pencils in the world in Keswick. I bet your teacher taught you how to draw with them at school.'

Come to think about it, she had. Well, she'd tried. I haven't a lot of talent for painting and drawing. Matchstick men and women were as far as I ever got. 'And they have a museum?' I asked.

'Yes. They've moved production somewhere else. The museum's all that's left.'

'Hmmm. Let's get leaflets from one of the pubs. We can make a more informed choice when we know all the options.'

'Leaflets?'

'Fliers, then. Surely they have fliers. You can't move in Cornwall for racks of fliers. The Eden Project. Paradise Park. The Minack Theatre . . .'

'There's not much adventure in that little lot. Didn't you ever go walking or surfing?'

'I did the Camel Trail and loads of cliff top walking. I never tried actual surfing, but I was practically sponsored by Fat Willy's Surf Shack.'

'Mmmm,' said Dave. 'I'd just love to see you dressed as a surfer chick.'

We didn't bother with sweets that time and the waiter didn't bother with carnations (I don't think it was anything personal; they simply didn't seem to follow the practice). As I mentioned, the nearby pubs were booming. We checked a couple out and had a few beers, gathered up some fliers and decided to hit the hay. By then it was going on nine o'clock.

'One for the road?' Dave suggested as we approached the BB.



I shrugged. I like a drink as much as the next girl but, at that moment, I would have opted for sex. 'Do you really want another,' I said, probably sounding peevish.

'I want to see the landlady's "partner",' she explained. 'I have a theory.'

Well, hats off to Dave. I don't seem to have any gay bar at all, but hers certainly works. It wasn't a guy running the bar, it was very much a gal.

[kiasusam]

Thirty-something (making her at least 10 years younger than her lover), she had frizzy, red-blonde hair and challenging green eyes.

'Welcome,' she said. 'You must be Room 5. Shall I do you a tab?'

"One for the road" turned into four. And Clarissa (the frizzy red-blonde) turned out to have a black belt in being talkative. Girl oh girl, could she talk! She was hardly overworked . . . there were only four other customers in the room . . . and was the sort of person it was difficult to ignore. Windbags or not, we did more listening than speaking.

Claire (the landlady) had owned the BB for 20 years, inheriting it off her gran. She had been married for a while but her husband had "run off with some cockney tart". Clarissa had booked in five years ago . . . "I was burning off adrenalin at an outdoor centre" . . . and "I've never booked out again".

She had laughed and said she wasn't a gold-digger. She'd somehow "wangled a job" at the outdoor centre and worked there still, 6 days a week. And she thought herself lucky to be covering the bar while Claire did "all the hard work". "I couldn't have asked for a more perfect wife," she'd assured us, flashing a wedding band.

The sex was even better than ever that night. Dave excelled herself and I more than held my end up (I hope!). I won't bore you with the grizzly details but, surprising and delighting me, my lover proved she wasn't averse to penetration at all.

Afterwards, with her on her back and me on my side, staring at her face and gently stroking her tummy, we talked intimately.

'You are so, so beautiful,' I told her (you may have noticed I told her that once or twice before, and it is true: she is so, so beautiful. I'm not going to apologize for being repetitive on that score).

'Clarissa and Claire,' Dave said dreamily. 'How sweet is that?' Then, stifling a yawn, 'Do you think you'll ever be so lucky? To find a job you love and settle down with a woman you love?'

'Only if that woman is you,' I replied, blushing furiously.

Dave snorted half a laugh and closed her eyes.

'Well done,' she said, sounding drowsy.

'What for?'

'For finding the only lesbian guest house in Allerdale.'

'It wasn't me,' I protested, 'it was kismet.'

'Well done kismet, then. Night-night.'

I kept on staring and stroking, watching her breathing slow and become regular. Then, when I was sure she was in the land of nod, I leaned in and kissed her eyelids, one by one.



'I love you, Dave,' I murmured. 'I love you more than life itself.'

'Me too you,' she countered. 'Now go to sleep. We've another busy day ahead of us.'

[kiasusam]

Bank Holiday Monday couldn't have started worse. I woke to the sound of the Dr Who theme tune and Dave cursing as she emptied her travel bag onto the carpet.

Still bleary with sleep, I struggled to work out what was going on. We had agreed over Friday lunchtime pints that mobiles were a no-no this weekend. Mine had only been on for a matter of minutes while I booked the BB. And Dave's state-of-the-art contraption had I Only Want To Be With You as its ringtone.

As I watched she snatched up another phone and barked into it: 'What?'

Her expression went from anger to despair and then rueful acceptance.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck,' she said after ringing off. 'Oh Mikki, I'm so sorry.'

'What is it?' I asked, alarmed.

Sitting on the bed, holding my hand, she explained. IT techies have a rota which puts them "on call" out of working hours. "On call" meant they could be summoned by work at any time. Nine times out of ten the call never came, and it was extra money for old rope. And they had Dial cards, because the call could come from anywhere in the UK ("I'm taxed to Hell and back on it, but I get free private mileage, so it's cheaper than paying for petrol").

Bank Holiday Monday was Dave's turn to be on call. Other techies had covered Saturday and Sunday. She'd forgotten all about work when she suggested an extra day.

And now the worst had happened.

'No getting out of it?' I ventured.

'No. I took their blood money, now I have to deliver.'

'Where's the call out? Back at base?'

'No such luck. It's the new mega store in Bristol. The one near Temple Meads. You know, the one that opens tomorrow.'

'Can't they sort it out remotely?'

'They've been trying all weekend. It needs a woman on the ground.'

'Fuck,' I observed.

(By the way, I've just realised my language so far has not been ideal. Please accept this as a "sweep-up" apology. I'll try to say sorry each time I lapse from hereon in).

Trying to look on the bright side, I squeezed her hand. 'Less than twenty-four hours to save the Earth. Flash had best get in gear.'

'I hope I'm more like Dale Arden than Flash.' Dave held up a hand. 'Don't answer that. Look, it's almost seven. Let's get breakfast then get out of here.'

The drive back to West Yorkshire was, to say the least, sombre. At one point I wondered when Dave would make it to Bristol.

'I need to go home and change,' she replied. 'Pack a new overnight bag . . . but traffic shouldn't be too bad. Three o'clock, say.'

With my dad behind the wheel I'd done the trip to Cornwall lots of times. Lots and lots of times. We'd once done Bingley to Padstow in five hours. There again, at the height of the season, we'd once done Bingley to Penzance in fifteen hours. Bristol is about halfway and, I reckoned, Dave was right: she'd have as clear a run as she'd ever get. If there was any Bank Holiday traffic it would be headed north, not south west.

'I can't tell you how bad I feel,' Dave said as she pulled up outside my poky flat.

'So don't tell me,' I told her. 'I've had a longer, even more wonderful weekend than I ever expected. And we can see each other again, can't we?'

'Of course we can,' she said quickly, before my unformed fears could become apprehension. 'We can go away again as often as you like. And, in the meantime, we've got our own pads, haven't we?'

'My pad tomorrow night?' I wondered.

'Assuming I've saved the Earth and we're all still here.' She smiled at me. 'I do believe I love you, Mikela.'

I returned her smile. 'Me too you.'

[kiasusam]

The rest of Monday was no less disastrous. Seguing smoothly into warts and all mode, I must confess I mooched about a bit, unable to settle. If I'd had a cat I'd have kicked it (not really, I hasten to add!). Eventually, snarling under my breath, I went to the Co-op and bought not one, not two but three bottles of Burgundy. I'd almost finished the first bottle when I received Dave's text.

I'M HERE. NOW 4 IT!
WISH ME LUCK AND
X YR FINGERS.

Flicking through TV channel after channel, finding little to tickle my interest, I half-heartedly plumped for Monsters Inc. And was unexpectedly captivated. Trust me, I don't usually have time of day for computer-generated films. Usually, as far as I am concerned, real-life is okay but cartoons are best. Disney (think Jungle Book), Top Cat and Tom and Jerry (especially the older, more violent ones). And Looney Tunes and Merrie Melodies, of course. I'm Yorkshire born and bred, but I know class when I see it.

Monsters Inc. was class. Maybe that second bottle of red helped, but I loved it. I was even thinking words like "pathos" and "sympathy".

Dave rang when I was into the third and final bottle. 'Sorted,' she said gleefully. 'Well, cobbled together, anyway. The tills work and so do the telephones. That'll get us through the grand opening.'

'Brilliant,' I slurred. 'Will you be home tonight?'

'No. It's after eight and I have lots of fine-tuning to do. One of our techs effect​ up with credit card payments once in a situation like this. He left it so everything looked like payment had been made . . . except it hadn't. Cost the company thousands, that did. No way am I making the same mistake.'

'So you'll be back tomorrow?'

'I dunno. I've tests and all sorts to make. And I can't do them until the branch has closed. It's looking like two night's in a Travelodge for me.'

I wished her goodnight (I think), then abandoned my latest large vino and hit the sack.

Two minutes later, or so it seemed, my alarm roused me. I'm lucky with hangovers (rarely getting one) but do admit to a certain fragility that Tuesday morning. Refreshed by a cold, not-quite-icy shower, I was in the office early as always.

For anyone who has forgotten, I work in Credit Control for a nationwide company. Put simply, we make and sell gizmos into the construction sector. And, constructors being constructors, lines of credit are a must. My job was to keep the valued customers as near as possible to terms without rocking too many boats.

A fine balancing act? Put it this way, I know exactly how Karl Wallenda must have felt on his high-wire.

The morning got off to an inauspicious start when Chris arrived. Chris is about my age and has made no secret of the fact he fancies me. Mildly attracted myself, I'd put him in a slot marked "Maybe Next Christmas". Then I'd met Dave and shifted him to "Maybe the Twelfth of Never".

'Have a good time in the Lakes?' he said in greeting, grinning.

Slightly taken aback, I scowled. Scowling is, I've always believed, a great default mode, much more gracious than gasping or gaping.

'The Kirkstone Pass,' he persisted. 'I was on my way to Ullswater.'

'What a small world,' I managed, mentally damning the internal combustion engine.

'I didn't expect to see you there,' he continued. 'Especially not with her from IT. I'd have stopped and bought you both a drink, but the carpark was full.'

[kiasusam]

'What a Godawful shame I said,' with no pathos or (self-) sympathy at all.

'You know she's . . .'

'I know Davina is the loveliest person I've ever met,' I said, butting in. 'If only everyone was so nice.'

That morning seemed to be full of grouchy customers, frustrated salesmen and (much more verbal) frustrated saleswomen. Keeping professional at all times, I somehow got through it. Then, an hour before lunch, an e-mail arrived.

I looked at the address. It was in the standard company format but began with "bristolcent". Our existing branch in Bristol began "bristolpatch". While I dithered, wondering if it was a scam, my landline rang.

'Hiya, Mikki. Have you got my email?'

It was Dave. She'd sent me the email as a test and needed to know if it had safely made its way through the ether.

'Yes,' I said.

'Yippee! That's as far as I can go with the branch open. But it's good news.'

I smiled. Talking to Dave always made me smile. 'The opening went well, I take it?'

'Like a dream. They had this Cornish comedian up to cut the tape. I can't remember what they call him, but all his stories began, "This guy down St Just . . ."'

'I know who you mean,' I said. 'I can't remember his name either, but he can make me laugh until I cry. And when are you back?'

'Tomorrow lunchtime, all being well. I need to do two or three hours tonight. It'll be too late to set off after that.'

'And,' I whispered, 'will you sleep with me tomorrow night?'

'Mikki darling, I thought you'd never ask.'

[CraneDriver]

Do continue TS

[kiasusam]

I was surprised when Joyce, my team-leader, collared me at 10 to 12. Joyce is perhaps 40 and nothing if not tactful. She's also . . . well, artistic. God only knows how she ended up working in "Finance", but she's good at it. Perhaps that's because she's another of us people persons. But she's not the sort to strike up a random conversation bare minutes before lunch.

Not normally.

Joyce's subject was . . . incredibly . . . my weekend. Mysteriously, she also knew I'd been in the Lakes, although she hadn't been there herself. In fact she hadn't been there for years.

I studied her as she gesticulated at me, seeing rings on every finger, bangles and wrist bands too numerous to count. Age aside, it was easy to imagine her as an art student in Newquay or St Ives; one of those free spirits who charge a pound or two to paint little girls' faces or nails. A direct descendant of the hippies who had infested Cornwall in the 60s and 70s. Not that her predecessors would have charged as much as a whole pound . . .



Then her right tit slipped out.

'Oops,' she said, tucking it away again. 'Where was I?'

Gobsmacked (another of our quaint Yorkshire sayings), I took in her attire. Joyce tended to dress the same for work, day in, day out. Black skirt, white blouse. No change there . . . except that day she'd undone a few buttons. And where oh where had her bra gone? Come to that why, precisely, did she keep leaning over my desk?

'I understand you have issues with the Huntley account,' she said out of nowhere. 'Call it up. Let's have a look.'

Okay, she was the boss. I called up the account in question, grateful it was in as good a condition as it had been in weeks. 'There's less than a grand overdue,' I said. 'And all of it is individually queried. If they dealt with just one branch instead of 30, there wouldn't be any problems at all.'

'Flipping queries,' Joyce said. 'Which branches are dragging their heels now?' She leant even farther over the desk, twisting her body so she could see my screen. Rather predictably, her left tit slipped out.

'Oops,' she said, clearly not giving a toss. And not hurrying to tuck herself away. 'Clumsy me.'

[kiasusam]

Lunchtime was lonesome one without Dave. Then I got a text.

FIXED IT, AS GD AS!
HOME TMRW. CU 4
LUNCH. CAN'T WAIT.

Relieved and refreshed, hangover forgotten, I looked around me. Attempting to be scientific, trying to answer questions I'd been asking myself a while, I assessed the sexual attraction of my fellow canteen inhabitants.

Take note of my words: I assessed the sexual attraction of my fellow canteen inhabitants . . . in a scientific sort of a way.

Okay, so I majored in English Lit. I know infinitely more about George Eliot and the peerless Jane Austen than I'll ever know about Lister and Crick. But I could apply scientific principles. And (hopefully unobserved), I did.

First up was the canteen manager. Tall . . . 6' 4 at least . . . he has short-cropped ginger hair and looks quite athletic. Not athletic enough to pass, though. Dismissing him as unfit for purpose, I moved on.

3 female canteen staff. The youngest is blonde, bubbly, and decidedly attractive. Almost certainly straight, she gets picked up by her boyfriend outside work every day. Not bad at all, I concluded. No way would I kick her out of bed.

(A brief aside: in my neck of the woods the statement, "I wouldn't kick her out of bed," is used in more ways than one, ranging from admitting sincere admiration to curmudgeonly implying any girl would do in a pinch. I, of course, use it sincerely.)

Next in age is Debs, who might be twenty-five. Debs looks a bit like Christina Aguilera and probably has an active sex life. Also not bad. I wouldn't kick her out either.

The 3rd one, Becky, is maybe 28 with a mane of black curls. She's on the short side and has a figure I'd describe as "dumpy". She has, however, eyes like blue diamonds and tits which enter a room minutes before the rest of her.



Mmmm, mmmm, I thought, Becks is better than a bit of all right.

Then I shook my head. In my tiny little word I was only allowed to fancy Dave. Men didn't count and girls shouldn't feature at all.

I'm only doing what-ifs, I told myself sternly. It's fun and completely harmless . . .

Determined to complete my preliminary research, I cast around the dining hall, assessing everyone, male and female, young and old, storing the results in my head.

[kiasusam]

That afternoon passed smoothly. Our valued customers weren't so grouchy, the salesmen and saleswomen weren't so frustrated. Punctuated as it was by our monthly team brief (Joyce managed to contain her chest whilst briefing us), I sailed through it.

Glad to be out in the open, wishing the air was a sweet as it had been in Ambleside, I made my way to Keighley railway station, smiling as I arrived on Platform 1. The station has four platforms. Two of them are on the main line, connecting places like Leeds and Bradford with places like Skipton, Morecambe and Carlisle. The other two are the terminus of a heritage railway that runs authentic steam trains between Keighley and Oxenhope (via the capital of Bronte country, Haworth).

Please don't put me down as a train spotter or rail buff, but I love the contrast between the modern platforms and the old ones. The modern ones are spartan, with no avoidable expense ever having been spent. The heritage ones are majestic, well-maintained and feature floral displays worthy of awards at the Chelsea Flower Show. Period films and TV shows have often featured them. And, of course, the heritage line itself starred in the 1970 version of The Railway Children (admittedly before my time, but regularly shown on the box, even now).

My train arrived shortly after I did. It was a brand-new one, but I wished it was powered by steam.

Two stops and a short walk later I was in the fish and chip shop, buying my evening meal. Two minutes after that I was home, washing it down with the remains of yesterday's wine. Then, feeling sweaty and grubby, I decided a shower was in order.

Warts time again. I masturbated under the jetting water, concentrating on my clit and hood, thinking about Dave all the while. Taking my time about it, I built and built and built until I finally went off like a volcano. Then, towelling myself dry, I retired to the bedroom to continue my research.

Men, I thought. Can I even touch myself while thinking about men?

I couldn't. I could when thinking about girls, though. Gently stroking as I pictured the bubbly blonde. Easing in a couple of fingers into my pussy as I drooled over Debs. And frantically frigging myself imaging Becky on top of me, her pneumatic tits crushing mine . . .

Cumming even more volcanically.

Okay, I concluded, recalling a definition I'd seen of "lesbian". I'm in love with Dave but I'm also capable of lusting after other women. I definitely qualify as lezzie on that score. But men . . .

Can I conclusively say men are ancient history?

I opened my bedside drawer and fished out my one and only sex toy. A fellow bar worker, Sue, had given me it as a twenty-third birthday present. She'd gift-wrapped it in a large box, using padding to make it rattle-proof.

'Here you go, maid,' she'd said in her Cornish way. 'I'd open it in private if I were you, mind. And let me know if you need showing how it works.'

I wonder if she was disappointed when I didn't ask for a demonstration. Perhaps she'd hoped for a threesome with me and the toy. Perhaps she thinks of me as "one of they tight northern cows with no spirit of adventure".

Sue's present is a dildo in tasteful green. I've used it many times, always successfully. Up until that Tuesday evening I had not, however, used it when thinking about men. So . . .

Purely in the interests of scientific research, I pushed my toy against me. It slid in easily but I hesitated. Who to think about? Not either of my two (pathetic) male lovers. So who, then? The canteen manager? No thanks. A film star or sporting hero? No, not in the least bit realistic. So who?

[kiasusam]

After some debate I settled on Tommy Smith, a friend from school. He hadn't got his shag on our one close encounter (I lied about the time of the month, remember?), but I had given him a hand job. And, although it wasn't green, his cock had been of a similar size and shape as my dildo . . .

(Confession: That last claim was just me, reassuring myself. I'm sure Tommy's cock isn't green but otherwise, at a distance of 6 years, I've no recall of what it actually looked like!)

Surprisingly enough, I could focus and fuck (sorry!) at the same time. And excitement built up inside me at the usual rate. Snag was, I just couldn't cum. Not while thinking about Tommy, anyway. Obviously psychological, you may say. Obviously, I would have to agree. Eventually, after trying my damnedest, I tossed the toy onto the carpet.

'Dave,' I murmured, feeling for my G-spot.

Cumming inside 30 seconds.

'Definitely lezzie,' I assured myself as I lay there, basking in the afterglow. 'Maybe so ever-so-slightly bi.'

I can't explain the relief I felt at knowing that. Okay, I want to be with Dave forever but nothing is set in stone, is it? And Dave has had plenty of relationships before. Plenty of relationships and plenty of breakups. We might be one angry word from . . .

From . . .

Well, I told myself, if we do ever break up, I'm capable of finding someone else. Someone female and fun.

I passed time thinking about types of females. The lesbians at uni came in all shapes and sizes. Some of them had been quite scary. Hell, some of them made themselves as scary as possible. Could I go with someone so purposefully butch? I wasn't sure. The canteen staff were . . . manager excluded . . . comely and feminine. But Dave was regularly mistaken for a bloke . . .



In the end I decided I'd wait and see. Hopefully I wouldn't be looking for a replacement any time soon. If and when the need arises, I thought, I can always go for character.

Then, realising I was horny again, I resumed my research. My neighbouring lunchtime table had been occupied by four youngish women. In my opinion two of them were good-looking, one was glamorous and the other was simply gorgeous. The masturbatory potential there was massive.

But wait, wait, wait. What about Joyce? That tit-flashing routine just had to be deliberate. Was it inspired by my weekend with Dave? Was my line manager suddenly seeing me in a bright new light?

I closed my eyes and imagined Joyce as a child of the 60s. Bra-less, naturally, with braided hair under a massive floppy hat. Beads everywhere. A short, caftan-style dress with full sleeves. Barelegged and barefoot, ankle bracelets with quirky bells completing the image.



OMG, I thought, reaching for my clit, I'm going to finish before I've even started!