March 24 1943, Asia
While the gorgeous Vera is bouncing along on a wartime wave of love and accompaniments, my Best Buddy and I have been flown out to entertain the troops in the Japanese Theatre; war, that is, not the establishment in downtown Yokohama. I am not actually allowed to say where we are at present which is terrifically good news as quite frankly I don’t have a clue, but I have to report that the most dreadful occurrence has, well, occurred.
Since my wrongful incarceration and my rebirth as the warm voiced seductress of all the better basement clubs between Soho and South Ken, any idea of being a fairy has escaped not only my plan and ambition but has needed to been wrapped up and parcelled away. Face it girls, when you strip off to show your lovelies you only have the lovelies on the front, I have a flapping pair of sweet little gossamer ones round the back as well. It rather curtails the old love life, to be honest, but I have found ways and means around the problem and when I need to find a way, trust me, I always have the means; quite spell binding, if you get my drift.
But still, to the average Jo, as the new worlders like to call non-fairy kind, I am this tight waisted little minx with a smooth alto way about her and no questions asked. This was all tip-top and dandy until the dear old Japanese decided that our rendezvous needed rearranging and started dive bombing our night time entertainment. Well, everyone went into a complete fluster, and quite rightly too, and they ran every which way; some into tents, some behind the trucks, some into the jungle. Left, right and anywhere in between they all scattered, all except one frightened little bird. Me. I went upwards!
Well, Best Buddy was left standing trying to hug and protect the bit of the camp where I had been moments before and he looks up to see me beating like a flamingo with its tail on fire.
“Come down,” he shouts in alarm, realising his muse might not be the lady he thought. “Get down here at once, you hear?” Such a charming accent. I fluttered down impishly, which is hard when you are five foot two, and kicked away the actual imp that had fallen out of my handbag. What is it with imps and my handbag?
“Oh, horse kidneys!” I shouted, which I have since discovered is not an old American turn of phrase, but is how you order horse kidneys from the butcher.
“Lady, now that is what I call an exit!” He shouted and kissed me full on the lips. “You gotta get yourself into panto, darlin!”
“Panto? How crass!”
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