I sat down on the park bench, the sun beat down, it was too hot. England August 2022. Far Far Far too hot.

“It’s hot,” an older woman said as I sat on the opposite end of the bench to her.

“Yes,” I agreed.

“Too hot, I don’t like it so hot, Eric my late husband wanted to live in Spain but I said it was too hot,” she informed me.

“Yes, hot,” I agreed.

“We used to live in Blackpool but it was too hot,” she said, “I don’t like it too hot.”

“Yes its hot,” I agreed, “With a cool sea breeze.”

“Not like here where its just hot,” she said.

“No breeze,” I agreed.

“It needs a breeze, its too hot,” she said.

“Well take your knickers off and let the air circulate around your cunt,” I suggested.

“What did you say?” she asked.

“I said turn your hearing aid on,” I replied.

“You said take your knickers off and let the air circulate around your cunt,” she replied.

“So why ask if you heard me?” I demanded.

“I couldn’t believe what I heard,” she replied.

“Tell you what why don’t I chuck you in the fountain and cool you down.” I suggested.

“My late husband tried to throw me in the Trevvy Fountain in Italy,” she said.

“Really?” I said disinterestedly.

“He hurt his back.” she said.

“Really?” I sighed

“Yes,” she replied, “Pulled a muscle, he was a lovely man, lovely muscles when we were married, he liked my cooking, that’s why he married me, I made sure he had a good tea every day so he didn’t go chasing other women.and he grew a great big pot belly by the time he had his heart attack.”

“Really?” I sighed, “I’ll make sure I don’t have tea round your house.”

“Clogged arteries, too much fatty food,” she said, “He loved fatty food.”

“I’m sorry, do I need to know this?” I asked.

“Big fat pot belly, he was so fat that on Saturday nights after Match of the Day I had to kneel down so he could get it in me from behind, “ she said, “When he could get it up at all, which wasn’t often, he used to like that Helga on ‘Allo ‘Allo, when she wore a corset and suspenders, or was it Herr Flick, I never knew.”

“Do I really need to know this?” I asked.

“He used to look out of the window when we were doing it,” she continued “Oh look there’s the number 87 bus, ‘he would say, It was his idea of a joke, but I closed my eyes and imagined it was Tommy Granby, Mrs Arkwrights gardener that was fucking me.”

“Too much information,” I explained.

“Well you told me to drop my knickers and I didn’t ask you to ask me did I?” she replied.

“No, I suppose not,” I sighed.

“I don’t think it would help much anyway,” she said, “Even if I did I’d still be too hot.”

“Yes, but if you put your knickers on your head it would keep the sun off,” I suggested.

“Why this fascination with my knickers?” she asked.

“I’m not,” I explained.