We found some London views we thought you'd like. There were some nice ones, for instance, of MARGARET SUMNER.
Margaret is a receptionist at an exclusive sauna bath establishment in the West End and lives in a Hampstead flat.
It wasn't half rough. The wind was whistling and cutting little old ladies in half, practically.
Student CHERRY LENNOX of Edinburgh was caught in the teeth of it, as it were. Och, what a wee howling gale. Took her kilt right off. In the nick of time, as it were, she found shelter in an old Scottish roundhouse, whatever that is. Probably similar to a Kentish hophouse.
Anyway, it served to keep the worst of the chilly breezes at bay for Cherry. And while she was able to hold on to her Scottish rainproof she felt she could endure all else, as it were. Even the loss of her kilt.
Whipped off by a quirk of the whistling wind, it was, and went sailing over heather and burn, it did. Never mind, there's always a silver lining. It just showed how perfectly intriguing Cherry's patterned stockings were.
On a day when whistling wind equals student sans kilt in a cold climate, things aren't wholly miserable. And if Cherry can laugh about it, so can you.
With a modelling appointment for half-past ten in the morning at Portsmouth, it was unfortunate for DAWN WILLIAMS that the mechanics of her wonky alarm clock broke down during the night. Dawn rose rather late.
The photographer, however, was ever so decent. As they couldn't make Portsmouth in time he said how about stopping off near Guildford and doing some lovely countryside shots instead, and Dawn said she couldn't think of anything more rapturous.
It was hard luck on the Portsmouth naval types, however. They'd have appreciated seeing Dawn around.
Sitting very pretty indeed is BRIDGET KILDARE, girl with very distinctive eye appeal in her black boots and brief mini.
Bridget makes a lovely secretary and if you know a more enchanting blonde to go with a desk and a typewriter you must be really living.
At five feet five with vital statistics of 36-23-36, Bridget must just about be everybody's idea of the perfect picture for the camera you had for Christmas.
"Please, may I look through your files?" asked DAGMAR KELLER of the basement library clerk.
"How can I say no?" replied the clerk faintly. "The only thing is I'm dead mortified I can't stay and help, only it's me lunch break and I've got a chick to share me hardboiled eggs with."
Off he went. It was hot and stuffy, so Dagmar shed a few things and with a fascinating searching look went in discovery of something we're a bit vague about ourselves.
It was all part of her secretarial duties.
The boss rang down from the sixth floor and said don't take all day. Miss Dagmar. He asked her if she wanted any assistance.
"No thanks, I'm not dressed for it” said Dagmar blushingly.
"What's she talking about?" muttered the boss as he hung up.
This file was interesting. It was all about a consignment of desert island concubines who got seasick on the way back to Palmtree Paradise.
Search over. Dagmar cooling off.
In came the library clerk full of hardboiled eggs to fall flat on his face.
So, would anyone.
A most photogenic asset to the office is TRUDI JACKSON, who works in Bournemouth. She is the personal secretary of a high-class businessman there, and, yes, he does know how lucky he is.
Whenever another businessman calls, he makes Trudi hide herself, because he has a kind of quivering certainty that friends and rivals alike would not hesitate to grab this deliciously efficient wonder girl for themselves. Trudi is an absolute dream of efficiency at every secretarial chore, and when you add all that to her sex appeal, you've got yourself an asset indispensable to the sweet flow of business life.
If you're looking for someone nice to have around the home, you could consider wooing Scottish dolly SUSANNE FERRIER.
Susanne is a dream girl when it comes to being lovely to look at and useful to know. Not only is she bonny and bouncy, she's a naturally inventive and accomplished cook. And you do like your food, don't you?
"Well, yes, I do rather," said the first feller to knock, "and am I to take it that Miss Ferrier is eligible?"
Eligible for what?
"For taking home to meet mother and then to the altar."
You'll be lucky. She's already engaged. She's got a lovely feller and he's six feet tall.
"Oh, well, count me out, but I thought I'd ask."
Of course. We did say wooing Susanne could be considered. It just can't come to anything, that's all.
It was Frank on the phone. SARA JAMES, Kensington dolly bird, was trying to sell him off the idea of becoming an elephant trainer. She thought he was too eligible to spend all his time with elephants.
"Okay, "said Frank, "listen. I'll try the trapeze, I often feel like flying about after a day selling insurance."
"No, don't do that," said Sara, "you'll only fall off."
"Tell you what," said Frank, "if I do fall off I'll pack it up and we’ll do a safari from London to Istanbul, how about that?"
"Lovely," said Sara.
"Agreed,” said Frank, "see you at the circus, then."
So, they met at the circus and the management let Frank try his trapeze potential. He fell off as soon as he got on. He was still dizzy when they went off on safari to Istanbul and after a whole day's travelling they were still going around Piccadilly Circus.
Sara got off at midnight and went to a club with Nigel.
A girl can only stand so much.
They play that hurling game in Ireland. Everything flies about.
"Did that one hurt, Paddy?" asks O'Reilly.
"Me ears is still ringing, yer dirty scoundrel."
"Hard luck, me boyo."
Well, hard luck is what you get in that kind of game. But there are compensations, all to do with how things look after the game.
They look lovely. Ireland is full of colleens.
Here's one of them. JANE DIXON. Many a Paddy will walk ten miles to call on her and still be full of blarney when he arrives. Men of other nations could only ask hoarsely for water.
Jane, of course, recognises blarney as soon as she hears it. Many a Paddy, calling with a bunch of flowers and an invitation to the horse show, has had his foot caught excruciatingly in the door as Jane closes it.
"Oh, me foot!"
"Does it hurt, Paddy?" calls Jane through the mail-box.
"Like the devil himself, me darling."
"Hard luck, me boyo."
Even in Ireland you can't win them all.
Talking about geary goers, as we were some pages back, how about 18-year-old LINDA CLEMENES of Portsmouth down in lovely Hampshire?
Linda is such a goer that nothing less than a motorbike suits her desire to get up and go at speed. Her motorbike is her great love. There are boyfriends, of course, but mostly they take a back seat on the pillion.
Linda works for her local paper, she has dark brown hair that is fascinatingly ruffled and windswept, and brown eyes that often look browner through her goggles.
Her vitalistics are 37-25-36, and her long legs look extremely geary in her motorcycle boots. Don't get in the way if you see her coming, you'll get caught in her slipstream.
"Now this is a part of London noted for its hilly position and its vistas," said the guide, "and there for instance, you can see the clock tower of the Edwardian town hall—"
"Hold on," said Fred, "you could have fooled me if I'd only been listening, but I been looking as well, and that's no clock tower."
"Eyes the other way, if you please," said the guide, who was a walloping great woman who didn't like anyone not paying proper attention.
But Fred resigned from the Hampstead tour and introduced himself to a vista he much preferred to clock towers. It was London model MILLICENT DAWSON and Fred being so polite as well as raising his hat, they had a coffee together and then visited the Hampstead funfair.
Fred got stuck on the Dodgems and Millicent went off to audition for a commercial in Barbados. While Fred was still going round and round Millicent won through.
It was night. Well, it was all dark, anyway, and Fred was in bed. And solidly immersed in a dream about fishing boats.
When Fred is solidly immersed his mind is totally unimaginative.
Far removed from boats and fish is our kind of dream. Her name is JAN NEWMAN. She lives on the South Coast and is a sun worshipper. If, when you are deep in sleep, you can dream about a dream like Jan, then you'll have a far more sublime period of floating sub-consciousness than silly old Fred.
Don't ask us how.
Perhaps it's just a matter of artistic concentration and the right kind of night-cap.
Jan is a secretary, a richly corn-coloured blonde with the loveliest legs. If you like elegance, you whistle. If you like dumplings, go home to mother.
Sometimes even elegance takes a tumble. Still, it was entirely involuntary. Jan thought there was a chair there. Never mind, it does prove our point, that she really does have the loveliest legs.
At this time of the year it's lovely in the park.
It's even better than that when STEPHANIE ST. LAURENT is around. After all, however sweet the daisies are, however green the grass, what can add more ornamental adornment to the scene than one of nature's mini-dad dolly girls?
You could try a statue of Venus de Milo, of course.
But that's only a lot of polished marble.
A living, breathing Stephanie is far more alluring.
MARIA NICOLE, seen as just about the best view in her Kensington home. Maria, a French girl, was educated in a convent near Paris, and now works as a courier in a London travel agency. It's all go, showing tourists the sights of London, but for Maria it's also fun.
Very cosily at home in her new apartment in London is CAROL CATKIN. Carol is a bachelor girl with her eyes set on a modelling career.
This doesn't mean she turns a cold eye to men. There's nothing about Carol that wants to be liberated. Her idea of the blissful best of both worlds is a career to keep her vital and occupied during the day, and a fascinating man to keep her entertained during the evenings.
The thought of dining out by herself makes her throw a fit.
"Men are so useful," she says earnestly, "they can order the wine and boss the waiters about. They can see you safely home—after they've paid the bill, of course—and they don't mind a bit if you have to poke them in the eye on your doorstep. They like that, it tells them you're a nice girl. How dreary if you had to go out with another girl. I mean, who’d pay, for goodness sake?"
Isn't she a lovely bachelor girl?
