Sandra Norvic

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I Say, Miss

Salesgirl SANDRA NORVIC of Middlesex heard the call behind her.
"I say, miss!"
"Yes?" smiled Sandra over her shoulder.
Up came Jonathan Burntwhistle, a gay old geezer of sixty or so.
"Er—I thought you ought to know-um-that your dress—I say, it's hot, ain't it?" He dabbed his russet forehead.
"What's bothering you?" smiled Sandra, the sweetest 18-year-old dolly anyone could wish to meet by an old mill stream.
"Ah—er—you're all hooked up," said Mr. Burntwhistle.
"Oh, dear," blushed Sandra, "how embarrassing." "I ain't exactly embarrassed," he coughed, "in fact, I ain't seen such a nice pair of black silk knickers since Dora Tippledown fell off the swings in nineteen hundred and twelve."
"How sweet of you to notice," smiled Sandra and patted him on the head and sent him on his way.

Spick No 262 - September 1975

Sandra Norvic

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Quite Delightful

Secretary SANDRA NORVIC really is quite delightful. With brown eyes that can melt the iron resolution of a Muscovite and lovely legs that can make you realise how she adds to the look of a garden swing, Sandra is just the girl we'd like to share our luncheon voucher with.

Not a bit like Chrissie Moreweather. When she sat on our garden swing she bent it, and when she met her first Muscovite, she put her glasses on and talked politics with him.

Sandra is essentially feminine. Politics send her to sleep. She likes pop music, pop art and exotic cooking. She looks heavenly in a kitchen, and fascinating over a hot stove. She thinks men are delicious. Some are so delicious she could eat them. Anyone like to be cooked in a hot oven?

Spick No 179 - October 1968