He stood at the window...

looking for all the world like a goldfish in a bowl.

His mouth opened and closed as it took in the sight  

me baring my breasts.

I ought to explain.

My cottage was on a common at the top of a hill.

A truly magical place.

The neighbours were, in the main, a trifle odd,

myself notwithstanding.

Donald was a fit, knocking on for eighty,

bachelor.  A well respected fly-fisherman.

He would often be seen teaching folk the art of casting a fly

on  the common.  People in cars cresting the hill would look in wonder at this 

apparition in plus fours seemingly fishing... in the grass?

He was a retired architect who lived in a little Hansel and Gretel

cottage, that somehow over the years he had never got around

to modernising.  He had one cold tap and the carsey

was housed at the bottom of the garden.  He would often show you the plans

he had drawn up in '57 for the proposed modernisation.

A very talented artist and writer of poems and folk songs,

a true eccentric.

When he was ill, I would take a meal round and we would

sit contentedly in amongst all the treasures and papers he had accumulated over

the years.  We would share a quaich, brim-full of whisky.
With the pot belly stove belting out the heat... we were cosy.
Life was good.  Mod cons, who needs them?

Donald was lonely, he would often appear at the back door 
with a trout hanging from his middle finger, in the way that fisherman do.
On one occasion I thanked him and said

'I'll smoke this Donald and we can share it!'

'What time shall I come round for dinner?'

Erm, that wasn't my intention, but didn't have the heart to say.

Simon hadn't been dead that long, so I suppose sharing food
with Donald was a good idea for both of us.

In happier times, he would come to our parties
and sing and recite his rather risqué ditties.

On the morning in question, I had just climbed out of the shower,
and with a towel wrapped around me, I nipped into the kitchen to
put the kettle on.

Waiting for the kettle to boil I could feel the towel slipping;
I turned, opening the towel to tighten it, only to see Donald 
at the window.
My Double D's exposed for all to see!
Who was more shocked I couldn't say.
It was frigging half past seven on a Sunday morning!

'Errr, I've just come back from fishing and thought you might like this!' 
he stuttered as he held the fish aloft.
Red faced, I took the fish and closed the door.

I often wondered whether the ode to the flashing
neighbour ever got an airing at venues up and down the land?

Sadly Donald is no longer with us,
so I will never know!