The tale of the matronly bosom and the flower...

Picture the scene...

Wicked Stepmother was happily 

ensconced in a large leather winged back chair,

cheek by jowl with Wicked Stepdaughter.

Content we were,

sitting in a pub.

Pint for WSD,

wussy ½ pint shandy for WSM.

A trawl of the charity shops,

a visit to Kitsch and Stitch,

a chance for the girls to bond over

a little light retail therapy.

All rounded off with a pub lunch before we

tottered back to the village fete.

Ted was on point-duty in the car park,

flask of coffee and pork pie in pocket.

Deep in conversation over a sandwich,

completely oblivious of all around, we sat

talking the talk of girls...

froth, fro fro and the state of the world.

(last bit's a fib!)

Looking up two women had hoved into view...

'I thought I ought to apologise for me

looking at your chest!'

I looked at her with jaw dropped,

I looked at my chest with lips pursed.

Through my mind flitted the thought,

over the years this mantelpiece of my 

anatomy has caused me many a scrape.

As I've got older the only scrape it gets me into

is the pavement if I don't wear a bra.

Head in hands I thought...

'Now what?'

'Since you came in I've been admiring your

brooch!'

'Phew!' I wiped my brow.

'Is it made by Julie Arkell?'

'No, it isn't, guess who?'

'Viv of hensteeth?

'Yes!'

A long conversation with Nel ensued,

 we enthused about what

a wonderfully talented artist Viv is.

The upshot was, at the Eridge Fair she had asked Viv

if she would do a workshop in

Tunbridge Wells.

Eureka...

'I'll come!'  says I.

Nel said a friend had already 

phoned to say had she organised 

a hensteeth workshop yet?

So Viv if you're reading this...

it's over to you.