Well, tickle my radish and call me a Social Worker! Never in all my days have I heard such a thing. I just don't know, any more. Fancy asking a man of the world - or, at least, Bromsgrove and environs - such as me about Naked Stamp Collecting.
I have never been so embarrassed*. I just didn't know where to look.
Luckily, though, she had quite a splendid cleavage on display, so I thought it would be impolite not to stare. However, it is possible that my offer to wipe my drool off her magnificent frontage was - quite possibly - a little too forward considering the brief nature of our relationship.
It is funny, though, how a sudden sharp knee to the groin can often say far more than mere words can.
Still, as I lay on the ground desperately trying to get enough air into my lungs to enable me to moan in agony, even from my prone position, I could see - as she strode away from me - that she had the legs of an Estate Agent. So, all things considered, it was a very lucky escape for me, saving me from making yet another expensive mistake.
*Except, of course, that time with the weasel and the tin of rice pudding on the golf course.