Jane Rennie and Cherie Scott


Gamesmanship, as all you sporty fiends know, is the art of making sure the other feller keeps to the rules while you elasticate them. If you still lose it’s something to do with the fact that you’re a dead loss at games anyway, and it would be advisable to go round the world on a pogo-stick and not get mixed up with sport of any kind.

This is the way gamesmanship was applied when JANE RENNIE, brunette, met CHERIE SCOTT, blonde, in a local version of talkative Hide-and-Seek.

“Oh look, I can’t see.”

“Ah, ma Cherie, you’re not supposed to. You find out where I am by concentrating on the direction of my voice. How do you like my striped shorts?”

“Oh, they’re sweet. I think you’re over there by the dish-washer. What do you think of my Carnaby-street hoopla trousers?”

“Divine. Missed me. Were they terribly expensive?”

“I’ll have to forego seventeen lunches. Look, I wish you wouldn’t keep dodging in and out of the pantry. Am I warm yet?”

“You’ll catch me soon.”

“Oh, excuse me, I seem to be suddenly handicapped.”

“I’m afraid, Cherie dear, that your Carnaby-street hooplas are more of a handicap than a decoration.”

“Did you—?”

“No, honestly, Cherie, they just fell down.”