Annette Ridgeway

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The Story Of My Life

It's been a series of demoralising misses, said Jack Boggletonk. To start with, as soon as I was ten, I knew there was something about girls that my parents hadn't told me about. Kind of hypnotic, they were, and the way they went tweet-tweet after Sunday School fascinated me.

I was dead gone on one called Rosie. But by the time I plucked up enough courage to ask her to my birthday party, she'd changed her religion.

Then when I was fifteen, I was mad on a cracking little blonde called Marie. Just as I was about to treat her to a seat in the cinema, up came a feller twice my size and she went home to tea with him.

And then take this stunning brunette you're looking at now. ANNETTE RIDGEWAY. Marvellous. Lovely figure, gorgeous legs and the nicest disposition. I saw her picture in a paper and after thinking about her for a month and not hardly having any sleep, I wrote her the most romantic letter I could think of.

The post office returned it, saying Miss Ridgeway had just gone to the South of France on her honeymoon, and that she was now a Mrs. Some fellers have all the luck, marrying girls like that. I don't have any luck at all.

I keep missing.

Beautiful Britons No 169 - December 1969

Annette Ridgeway Le Greasley

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Jump Little Frog

Hello, hello, hello then. Who are you?

I might ask you the same question.

I’m a beautiful prince—me name’s Rudolph Twistle—and I say, you don’t half catch me left eye.

You look like a little frog to me. I'm ANNETTE RIDGEWAY LE GREASLEY myself and I’m sorry I only catch your left eye.

Me right one’s pointing in a different direction, watching the traffic on the A30. I say, you aren’t half a corker, you wouldn’t like to take me home and put me in a jar of caviar, would you?

Why?

Well, it’s all on account of the Queen of Diddleheimer and her ravishing daughter Princess Pinnipot. Me and Pinny - no, well, I won’t bother you with the details, but the Queen went off her tiny nut and in a moment of quite execrable taste turned me into a little frog.

Never mind, you look awfully sweet.

You’re joking. No, come on, take me home and put me in a jar of caviar. Then I’ll turn into a beautiful prince again and maybe we could go off to the South of France together.

That would be lovely. But I already have a beautiful prince. So, jump, little frog, jump.

Oh well, here’s me for that lake again.

Annette Ridgeway Le Greasley

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Dreamboats Are Sailing In

Here, look where you’re putting your oar, Monty, that’s twice you’ve clouted me in me delicate earhole. You got something on your mind or something?

I say, who’s that, then? Here, don’t fall overboard yet, let’s get the perishing yacht moored first. I want to coincide with that dreamboat sailing in. Kindly give me all the necessary biographical jazz so that I don’t operate as a dead loss.

That’s it, then. Hand me all me spanking nautical impedimenta, Monty, I’m about to become an infatuated landlubber but I don’t want to look like one. Hand me also one adjustable spanner with which I may helpfully approach this incomparable dreamboat who is, I observe, having a mint of trouble with her automobile. Right, Monty, here we go then. Eh?

Oggle, oggle, oggle.

You—oggle—incompetent offspring of a Tibetan yak, where’d you put the -oggle oggle—gangplank?

 Name of dreamboat - ANNETTE RIDGEWAY LE GREASLEY. Age - twenty years and delightfully shipshape. Lovely fore and aft and particularly when the sun’s shining. Dimpled, curvy, elegant.