My last boss always said that I missed my vocation: I should have been a street market seller, you know, a barrow boy. To be honest, I’d have loved it.
There you have a pile of goods in front of you and an interested audience – the ultimate opportunity to be a showman and none more so than in front of women. I adore women every shape, every size, every age. Dun care if they are 3 or 93, they all have charm.
Pick up a bundle of towels. Watch their faces. Look them in the eye.
‘Yeah, I know they look expensive, darling, they ought to be, they are Egyptian cotton (which they are not) and I’m down to my last 6.’
Pick someone who is smiling.
‘Imagine a rub down with these after a shower, darling?’ ‘Woops, better not tell the missus, I said that.’
‘And while, I am talking about the missus, she is nagging me to go down West tonight and I haven’t got the dosh. So please my lovelys, please buy something today or I’ll be in real trouble.’
‘You my lovely, how much? I know you’re thinking 50 quid and their worth every penny.’ 'But for you darling cus you are pretty, not even 20, give me 10.'
It’s important here to get a nod from someone.
Heavens, wish I'd done this.
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