Vicky Ashley

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The Birds And The Bees

The bird fluttered coyly about, tweeting and cooing, and the bee buzzed around waiting for the taste of honey. The bird got fed up with all the zooming and humming and delivered a short uppercut.

"Oh," thought the bemused bee as it plopped into the pond, "I often wondered what the crunch was—now I know."

That, of course, is the allegorical story of the modern birds and bees. You buzz around more than you should and clonk, you're on the floor and she's dragging you through the hall and out of the door and you're picked up with the rest of the garbage later.

An absolutely scintillating example of an irresistible British bird is VICKY ASHLEY, currently making a shining name for herself in the sumptuous studios of London photographers. With her vitalistics adding up to 37-23-36 she can't miss. She could have missed if she'd stayed with her job as a manicurist and beautician, but a bee in the shape of a photographer popped in for a trim one day and went away all fragile. However, Vicky took him up on his offer of a sitting and his fragility went away. He had discovered unimperishable beauty, a knockout bird of vivid brilliance.

But his fragility came back when Vicky told him that soon she would be winging her way to Australia.

"Don't go," he said, "think of all those sharks."

"I'll eat them for breakfast," said Vicky.

Vicky Ashley

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Making a Move

It wasn’t our idea to get up and go. We were in one of those groovy night clubs full of sensationally-clad birds accompanied by all that’s brightest in the way of fashionable male escortage.

Fashionable male escortage—as far as London is concerned—is something made up of the grooviest young men circulating the scene. The scene, of course, is any place in town where these breath-taking birds and their laughing boys congregate.

We were right in the throes of an incurable infatuation for a girl called VICKY ASHLEY, who was having a dizzier effect on our eyes than the revolving light. Was she gorgeous or was she not? She was. We asked a waiter to take her our card.

“Hold it, priceless,” he growled, “do I look like a waiter in me Spanish shawl and me string beads? Like me toreador boot in yer eye, would yer?”

We made a jolly little riposte to show him all we wanted was to drink wine with Miss Ashley, at which he called over a couple of laughing boys. We had to make a move. We didn’t realise people could take such quick offence.

As we left. Miss Ashley was looking lovelier than ever, and no wonder—she’s the newest and most photogenic model in town.