It was St Michaelmas day, 2001, and my Dad’s 85th birthday…and it was chucking down with rain, and had been all day long…well ever since I got up and got ready to go and clear out some hedge cuttings from the garden and dump it along with the rose cuttings and debris from RC’s garden, in which several hours of back breaking toil were spent yesterday. And a couple more hours were spent at Botanic, buying new stuff to stick in Mother Earth and to watch it bloom and grow. Sometimes I think that what I do here ain’t so bad after all.

It was while buying stuff that I first saw the tits…they pushed as to be free, although being bra less they were free. They pushed and strained against the soft material which beautifully folded about the under side of the breasts, and at times looked like they might peek out at the side. They were not large tits. They were purt and beautiful tits. The nipples, strong, were almost tearing through the material… they were just asking to be held; to be softly felt, kissed and aroused although they appeared not to need much more arousing…they were doing well on their own. The remains of the garment clung to the flat belly of the young woman and as she turned, the two or three thin strands tying the black top together, were lifted away from the naturally arching back as she walked…her matching clinging soft black baggy pants wrapped her thighs and bum, and the lower leg of her pants, was frayed where she dragged them behind her cork soled shoes. Her arms were bare and over the crook of one she carried a wicker basket which she filled as she slowly shopped. She was very aware of the sensation she was causing. Elderly and middle aged men watched her with perhaps a memory of past years and a desire that time should not progress. The younger men and some were bucks, found lots of things to do in the vicinity of where she stood…
Sometimes I just love living in France…

Chinese pickle jars, exported to southern India centuries ago when european civilised types were, no doubt, running about fighting each other in little more than a smearing of mud... just pondlife...