Sandra Norvic

I Say, Miss

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Salesgirl SANDRA NORVIC of Middlesex heard the call behind her.
"I say, miss!"
"Yes?" smiled Sandra over her shoulder.
Up came Jonathan Burntwhistle, a gay old geezer of sixty or so.
"Er—I thought you ought to know-um-that your dress—I say, it's hot, ain't it?" He dabbed his russet forehead.
"What's bothering you?" smiled Sandra, the sweetest 18-year-old dolly anyone could wish to meet by an old mill stream.
"Ah—er—you're all hooked up," said Mr. Burntwhistle.
"Oh, dear," blushed Sandra, "how embarrassing." "I ain't exactly embarrassed," he coughed, "in fact, I ain't seen such a nice pair of black silk knickers since Dora Tippledown fell off the swings in nineteen hundred and twelve."
"How sweet of you to notice," smiled Sandra and patted him on the head and sent him on his way.

Spick No 262 - September 1975