Al Fresco, our farmhand has been helping out the dairymaids yet again, down in the upper lower pasture. As far as we can tell, he seems to have been mostly helping them out of their underwear, judging by the number of discarded pairs of knickers and errant bras hanging from the horns of the cows when the rather pleased-looking dairymaids eventually bring them in at milking time.
Al Fresco himself – who, it has often been said, makes our carthorses feel inadequate and our donkeys feel underdeveloped – does seem to prefer the outdoor life. Not for him the traditional British Saturday night with the lights out approach to carnal doings. He much prefers a haystack under the moonlight with a brace or two of freshly-scrubbed milkmaids, a handful of librarians under the hedgerow, or even a postmistress or two on the blasted heath as the rough winds blow the discarded underwear hither and yon before entangling it in the heather or the gorse.
Al Fresco does, of course, make an exception to his usually strictly outdoors life by being a regular attendee at our village orgies. He is especially popular with the village ladies for his ability to open some of the higher windows in the village hall without using either his hands or the long pole usually utilised for that purpose.
Apparently the ladies of the village also much appreciate Al Fresco’s manual dexterity with his unerring ability to put the tip of his finger exactly on the nub of their problem and sweep away their anxieties and worries with a few deft fingerings and turns of his wrist.
There is also a claim that Al Fresco has certain mystical powers, being able to speak in tongues to the ladies in a manner only they can fully appreciate. Certainly, many of the women in the village have testified to Al Fresco’s marvellous ability to ease the anxieties and dissatisfactions of a lady using only his uncanny abilities as a cunning linguist to leave her blissfully satiated and at her ease once again.
Yours perversely: Norbert Trouser-Quandary