SKIRMISHER

The postman started it. When I opened the door, he stood there grinning like a Cheshire cat, and lingered rather longer than necessary while I signed for a package.

In Sainsbury’s not one but two men offered to let me go ahead of them in the queue.

Another wanted to know if I needed help packing my groceries away. Another still wanted to open my car door for me in the car park.

But it was the (male) librarian at my local library who really seemed to have lost his marbles.

Only a few days previously, he had processed my son’s books in the nursery section, and he had seemed like a perfectly normal, capable, soul.
Now, though, he was a man on the edge.

He stuttered when I asked him to show me how to use the new IT system. He flushed beetroot as I sat down.

But what had inspired this frankly odd behaviour from complete strangers? Quite simply, it was my pair of perfectly perky 36DD breasts.

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