First time: North Downs; a lovely summer’s day.
I’d never wanted so much to impress
– had trawled The King’s Road, spent a whole month’s pay
on platforms and a psychedelic dress.

He’d brought champagne and food - Alas, no rug
to sit (or maybe lie down! ) on. Instead
of handing me a flute, I got a mug
to drink the bubbly from. Hope turned to dread…

The booze was warm, the sandwiches were dry
(and cheese spread failed to thrill me very much,
along with massive chunks of stale pork pie),
but then things hotted up – he tried to touch

me in a place that boys don’t head for first
(not nice ones) and he hadn’t kissed me yet!
His planned ‘romantic picnic’ was the worst
I’d ever had; I wished we’d never met.

We left; there were some stiles to cross; I tripped
and landed in a steaming cow-pat. Great.
My shoes were plastered and my dress got ripped.
Needless to say, that was our only date.

Nice one, Jayne. Too bloody good for the Staggers.

Monsieur Manet, I must decline
Your kind suggestion I should dine
Alfresco upon bread and fruit
While wearing just my birthday suit.
You want me there au naturel
While blokes wear suits? If they as well
Were stripped down to the pimply buff
I might well think it fair enough,
But nasty little wasps and ants
Would spot the one not wearing pants
And zero in on poor yours truly.
No thanks. Please don’t think I’m unduly
Philistine or dumbly moral.
I’m fond of art and have no quarrrel
With those who paint the female form,
But can’t they do it in the warm?
(I’ve often posed for that short fellow,
Monsieur Lautrec, in the bordello.)
Your plein air work is just too chilly.
You’ll have to find some other filly.