Fashion model PAMELA JOHNSON, elegantly poised at 5' 6", is in a reflective mood as she eyes herself in the mirror, but her problem isn't the same as yours or ours. She’s bothered about whether to spend two months on the Riviera or three months on the Adriatic. The difference in the time period is governed by economics, it being cheaper on the Adriatic.
But all those marvellous Mediterranean dishes . . .?
Med dishes we like. You’re delicious too, Pam.
There was a frankly dishy girl in the office that Monday.
It was the new typist, ELENA RICHTER.
All the men were quite fascinated because Elena had long and lovely legs and a brief and eye-catching mini-dress.
The office was in West Berlin, Elena being a German girl working her way up towards the position of secretary. She's blonde, blue-eyed and dedicated. A girl must have a career until someone terribly handsome and just a little bit rich comes along.
If the new typist in your own office wears a midi and is even more dedicated, that's your hard luck, of course. And office girls like Elena would only take your mind off your work and you'd miss all that promotion.
You remember that old gag—fellers never make passes at girls who wear glasses?
They swept that one under the carpet years ago.
You can’t wonder at it when you look at JANE MERCER. Jane, in or out of horn-rimmed specs, is ravishingly eye catching.
Some feller who saw her passing by in a mini was so dazzled he didn’t even notice her glasses. “I was looking the other way,” he said. Then there was the nice chap who helped her off the bus and got into such a tizzy over her blonde allure that he forgot to get off himself and went all the way up the Strand when he really wanted Waterloo Road.
Jane is a secretary, as you’ve no doubt guessed. You can see from her glasses just how efficient she is. Aside from that she has lovely legs and a bewitching figure measuring 37"-23"-36".
You expect your boss to capitalise on your endeavor and your wife to read any confidential mail you get from Paris.
You don't expect anything except high pressure from insurance salesmen or stabs in the back from business acquaintances.
What makes it all worthwhile is the kindness you get from friends.
That’s what friends are for. To rally around and be kind when you most need them.
For example, when glamorous fashion model INGE PETRASCH was due to meet the most fascinating man from Hamburg her usual hairdresser was up a tall tree in the Black Forest and couldn’t get down. Nobody was aware of this except a large Black Forest wolfhound waiting slaveringly at the foot of the tree. The hound hadn’t had a hairdresser’s leg for ages and was willing to wait a week for this one.
Anyway, Inge couldn’t get fixed up in time with another hairdresser so turned to her friend, KATRIN DORMANN, who has a talent for styling woman’s crowning glory. “But of course,” said Katrin, “I will do it for you, darling. Who is your special date?” Inge told her and Katrin said,” Oh, yes, I know him from his pictures and he is truly ecstatic. Sit down, darling, and I will fix you up fine, you see.”
Eventually Inge was all in curlers and fixed up fine under the dryer with instructions from Katrin not to move until the little bell pinged.
So Inge waited and waited while Katrin, of course, dolled herself up in her most ravishing ensemble and went off to meet the most fascinating man from Hamburg, to whom she explained that Inge was unavoidably prevented from keeping the date and that she, Katrin, was standing-in. That’s what friends are for.
Boutiques are still in. Boutiques are where the teenagers congregate on Saturdays, filling the place with exuberant cries of “Oh Danny, just cast your optics at this crepe two-piece—isn’t it just the sharpest thing for dancing the hornpipe?” They don’t all talk like that, but it’s ear-binding to hear those that do.
MARILYN WARD hears it all the time. She runs a boutique in Bournemouth and if you want to see how she looks in a couple of the most delightful outfits available here’s your chance.
We can’t describe them, we don’t have the designer’s highly involved details, but since seeing’s believing don't ask for descriptions.
When a zip runs it really runs, and when is a mini not a mini?
When it’s worn as a shirt. We don’t know if you prefer Marilyn or the dresses, we like them like crazy all together.
"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.
