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are they’ll be peering at themselves in the mirror for the rest of the evening and saying “He’s right, he’s right”, and they’ll be eternally grateful – or, at least if not eternally, you stand a good chance of getting your end away in the bus shelter on the way home.

      Another thing to remember about married birds is that none of them reckon their old men appreciate them. Tell them this and you’re backing up their own judgement as well as flattering them, which can’t be bad. Anyhow, in this particular situation the bird’s hand is shaking with excitement as she pours me another cup of tea and I’m sitting back feeling I’ll soon have to start taking ugly pills.

      “You know who you remind me of?” she says all intense like.

      “Boris Karloff?” I say, modestly.

      “No, stupid. Jackie Pallo.”

      Jackie Pallo. I don’t reckon that very much. “Nobody’s ever told me that before.”

      “It’s your body.”

      “You haven’t seen my body.”

      “I’ve seen enough of it to tell.”

      “I don’t look a bit like Jackie Pallo.”

      “Oh yes you do, look, I’ll show you.”

      She pops out and comes back with a bloody great scrap book of male pin-ups going right back to people like Dana Andrews and John Payne. They must have been stuck in when she was a kid. Most of the up-to-date ones are telly stars and she certainly goes for beefcake. There’s hardly a bloke with a stitch on above the waist.

      “There you are.” She points to a photo of Pallo standing on some poor berk’s chest with his hands clasped above his head.

      “I don’t see it.”

      “You must do.”

      “I’m not very flattered.”

      “You should be, I think he’s smashing. I go all – oh, I don’t know – when I see him.”

      “Well, I am flattered then.” I puts my hand on her thigh and gives it a squeeze. She doesn’t touch my hand but looks right past me and her bottom lip starts trembling. I take my hand away.

      “I’ve got another one somewhere. I think it’s upstairs.”

      “I’ll help you look for it.”

      “It’s a bit of a mess up there.”

      “Doesn’t matter.”

      “I think it may be in the kids room.”

      “Let’s look there.”

      She’s going up the dark stairs ahead of me and I can hear her stockings swishing against each other. Round the bend on the landing and I can see the line of her bra and the bulge of its clip against the small of her back. I’m getting so worked up I can hardly wait to get through the door.

      “Now, where did I see it?”

      It’s a small room with two kids’ beds close together and the walls covered with pictures of Chelsea Footballers flashing their muscles and looking sickeningly confident. I know how they feel.

      She drops on one knee, between the beds, and I’m down there with her like her own shadow. She starts rummaging around a pile of comics and when she turns round I’m right on top of her. I try and kiss her but she pulls back and puts her hand on my arm.

      “What are you trying to do?”

      “I’m trying to kiss you.”

      “Oh, you mustn’t do that.”

      This is another little performance you have to learn to get used to. A bird will sandbag you and drag you back to her place but once she gets you there she’ll suddenly start acting all coy and saying things like “do you really think this is a good idea?” or “you just want me for my body”. Bloody stupid, unnatural things that make you want to say “alright then” and piss off. But of course you never do because by that time you’d put a ring on her finger to get your end away.

      “Oh, let me kiss you,” I bleat, “don’t be cruel. I think you’re smashing, I really do.”

      She makes a bit of token resistance and then comes down on both knees to make herself more comfortable.

      “Suppose my old man were to come home?” The minute she says that I know I’m in like Flynn.

      “He couldn’t say anything could he. He neglects you.”

      I put my hand up her skirt and start kissing her again. She’s good at that and allows herself a couple of satisfied moans.

      “You can’t stay long, the kids will be back from school soon.”

      We struggle onto the bed and I start fiddling for the hook on her skirt.

      “Close the door first.”

      I get up and close the door and she’s lying on the bed with her skirt up round her waist, and her face flushed. I sit down on the edge of the bed and start taking my shoes off. There’s a hair pin hanging down by her ear so I take it out and kiss her very gently.

      One thing to remember when you’re undressing in front of a bird is to do it in the right order. Get your shoes and socks off first, then your shirt, trousers and pants, if you wear any. I can never understand all those jokers in dirty photographs running around with just a pair of socks on. Always seems very crude to me.

      Anyway, I go through this palava until the bird, whose name I haven’t yet discovered, gets a spot of the full frontals without having to turn her telly on.

      “He’s very naughty,” she says stretching out her hand, and it’s a fact that I’m standing to attention better than the brigade of guards. I settle down beside her and after a bit more cuddling, because I’ve been reading my book, remember? I unhook her skirt and start to pull it off.

      “There’s a zip,” she says. I find that and we’re off again.

      So are her pants and tights. I’m starting to unbutton her blouse when she grabs my hand.

      “That’s enough,” she says.

      It’s a funny thing that, and its one of the differences I find between upper and working class birds. Your upper class bints likes nothing better than to tear all her clothes off and run around starkers showing you everything she’s got, and proud of it, but most of the stuff I tumble with only take their knickers off. Flashers like Viv are the exception. I don’t know whether it’s because working class families live on top of each other and have to be more careful in case the kids suddenly come bouncing in, or because they reckon the whole thing is a bit dirty and least seen soonest mended. Anyway, this bird is dead typical.

      “Go on,” I say, “you’ve got lovely breasts.” Notice I don’t say tits. It’s because I’m trying to be romantic and ‘breasts’ seem the right word to use, but I have since learnt that with an upper class bird you’d be much better telling her she had a nice pair of bristols. They go for it if you talk dirty to them, whilst a bird like this one will go spare if you say ‘cock’ when you’re on the job.

      “No,” she says, “you mustn’t do that. You just be nice to me, that’s all.” I know what she means so I drop my hands down below and rummage around in her tea-cosy. It’s as slippery as a snail’s front doorstep and twice as inviting. The very feel of it sends electric currents racing round my old man.

      “What’s that?” she says suddenly.

      “It’s my hand.” I says.

      “No, I meant that noise.”

      She half sits up and I stop quivering with excitement and start trembling with fear. Our ears strain into the distance and I hold my breath waiting for the sound of footsteps on the stair.

      “I can’t

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