Gone to Ski
The travelling baker, young and extremely personable, knocked at the apartment door in Knightsbridge.
It was opened by Ernestine, a languidly tormenting blonde.
“Who are you?” she said.
“I’m Faversham,” he said, “I’ve got a bakery in Chelsea and I brought Rita a couple of crusty cobs. It’s my day for doing my rounds.”
“Thrilling.” said the blonde, “but you picked the wrong day. Rita’s gone to ski.”
Faversham was quite upset. He liked baking crusty bread for RITA JOHNS and bringing it to her in person. No wonder. This is Rita and you can see how lovely she is to bring bread or biscuits to. She’s secretary to a tycoon and is mad about ski-ing. That’s why she was in Zermatt when the baker called.
She’s nineteen, measures 36-24-36 and came to London from Newcastle.
Meanwhile, Faversham was pressing his crusty cob loaves on the languidly tormenting blonde, and she wasn’t half playing hard to press.