Anne Duke

Aristocratic Cobblers

Cobblers means codswallop. Codswallop means my eye and Betty Martin. Or drivel. What it all boils down to is that it’s a lot of jazz and junk to imply being aristocratic is indivisible from a pink hat and an Ascot sunshade.

For us ANNE DUKE looks aristocratic all over. Elegant, bewitching and self-assured. Maybe self-designated aristocrats have a butler to help them over a gate to ensure they don’t have trouble with their skirts, but you can’t say an elegant, bewitching and self-assured look doesn’t have an aristocratic aura to it—even when there’s a gate trying to sabotage the elegance.

Anne is Welsh. We don’t know if she can sing but she isn’t half lovely to look at. The man who lives round the next corner to her has gone off his cornflakes and gone on to carrots. He wants to sharpen up his eyesight. “What for?” asked his wife. “Oh, just to make sure I won’t miss anything,” he said.

“What’s anything?” she said. “Oh, you know, birds and flying saucers,” he said.

Anne Duke

Going Off Bingo

Percy Blake and his wife Dolores were fanatical about bingo, they never missed a session at the village hall. And, bingo, they regularly came up for a couple of quid here and a couple of quid there.

Then a lovely and absolutely delightful girl came to live nearby, the sort any man just can't ignore. Percy went all agog the first time he saw her, and from then on, he was hardly ever out of a kind of trance-like goggle-ment.

You couldn’t blame him. The girl was ANNE DUKE, a Welsh beauty queen, with vitalistics of 36'-23'-36", and Dolores had never looked anything like that.

So, Percy went off bingo. He sat on his front doorstep waiting for Anne to walk by. Dolores didn’t go off bingo. She still went. And she continued to coin the bingo lolly and Percy continued to goggle. It was always a real pleasure to see Anne walk by. He didn’t ever try to date her. Well, what good is it when she’s twenty and he‘s eighty-four?