In no particular order, my favourite pastimes are golf, writing, and people-watching.

I can spend four or five hours playing that stupid game of hitting a small, round and dimpled ball into a hole four and a half inches in diameter, an indeterminate distance away. Then there is the cost. My new driver cost five hundred and thirty-eight pounds. A new ball can cost five pounds, get hit once and never be seen again. Not only is it a silly game, it’s bloody expensive and can suck money better than a vampire. I love it though, and keep returning each week, despite the weather. Madness lies there.

Writing has no time limit. It costs nothing, apart from the occasional replacement Apple Mac. It’s something that I can return to, adding, editing and creating to reach a standard that doesn’t embarrass me when it gets posted. The only constraint is a lack of muse, available time, tiredness or other demands on my time. Writer’s block is possibly the worst of the lot. It took me a long time to get back to hitting the keyboard. Joining this new outlet has reawakened my desire.

But people watching is, by far, my most engaging occupation. Usually for the duration of a cup of coffee, but sometimes, much longer. Observing strangers going about their lives. Catching snatches of conversations they are having on their mobile phone. Preening, especially in the reflection of a shop window. Unconscious mannerisms that people do without thinking. Scratching an itch ot flicking their hair away from their face. All done without awareness.

I enjoy looking at the people, noting the various body sizes, style of clothing and general appearance. I have a bit of a fetish for ladies’ hair. Don’t ask me why, it just is. Of course, I do like attractive women, particularly those who have made an effort to look good with makeup, groomed hair and quality clothes that match or complement each garment.

It never ceases to amaze me when observing the diaspora of passersby, the enormity of differing body shapes. Slim to obese and many in between. Being on the skinny side myself, I find obesity vaguely disturbing, someone to avoid if possible. Is that being sizist? (I’m reasonably sure I just made that word up. Sizist: Being prejudiced to out sized people.) Nevertheless, being overweight does nothing for me. Well-built, I can live with, even admire.

All this is preamble. A way to introduce the following short tale.

Krispy Kreme has a kiosk at the foot of the escalator in the mall in Bromley, Kent. The ‘Glades’ is a busy shopping centre in an affluent area of the London suburbs. For a voyeur such as I, it can be a mecca, depending on the weather. When it’s warm outside, the skirts become shorter and the sights from the vantage point of Krispy Kreme can be rather evocative. Yes, I am a dirty old man and frequent a certain seat often from which to perv. The coffee is good too. I don’t eat the doughnuts, just coffee.

I was in my usual place, people watching only, honestly. When my eye landed on a woman sitting at an adjacent table. She wore a short tan jacket over a mustard cotton blouse. A brown faux-leather skirt that sat just above her knee, where it had ridden up while she sat. Her auburn hair was coiled in tight ringlets that framed an attractive face, freckled, quite cutely, and green eyes. Very green eyes. I judged her to be in her thirties, perhaps thirty-five or six. I was instantly in lust.

She looked up and straight at me. Before I could turn away, a slight smile creased the left side of her face. I was charmed but didn’t want to offend her by ogling. My coffee dregs became very interesting suddenly.

Having given it enough time not to look as desperate as I felt, I looked up at her. Damned if she wasn’t staring at me with that enigmatic smile. I was transfixed, speared by her gaze and confused. Things like that just don’t happen to me.

She gave me a wink and then gracefully rose from her chair. In a panicked moment, I thought she was going to approach, but instead, she spun on her heel and walked off into the crowd, her arse wiggling from side to side.