Making a Move

It wasn’t our idea to get up and go. We were in one of those groovy night clubs full of sensationally-clad birds accompanied by all that’s brightest in the way of fashionable male escortage.

Fashionable male escortage—as far as London is concerned—is something made up of the grooviest young men circulating the scene. The scene, of course, is any place in town where these breath-taking birds and their laughing boys congregate.

We were right in the throes of an incurable infatuation for a girl called VICKY ASHLEY, who was having a dizzier effect on our eyes than the revolving light. Was she gorgeous or was she not? She was. We asked a waiter to take her our card.

“Hold it, priceless,” he growled, “do I look like a waiter in me Spanish shawl and me string beads? Like me toreador boot in yer eye, would yer?”

We made a jolly little riposte to show him all we wanted was to drink wine with Miss Ashley, at which he called over a couple of laughing boys. We had to make a move. We didn’t realise people could take such quick offence.

As we left. Miss Ashley was looking lovelier than ever, and no wonder—she’s the newest and most photogenic model in town.

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