Well I Never

When we wander off on our daily dawdle, in search of the vim and vigour that is purported to go with bodily well-being (although, to date, we have no supporting evidence), there are certain conventions that have to be observed.
There is the level crossing, for instance. Here, we need to pause and consider – before we turn round and head for home. It was during this considerate phase of our walk the other day, that the camera and I were taken quite by surprise.
The level crossing lights started to flash, so we turned to watch the train go by, expecting our normal, bucolic, two coach bus-on-train-wheels to trundle past. But, indeed no. It was one of your super high-speed, Intercity, pointy-nosed, all singing, all dancing, high class girls. I felt quite embarrassed. What on earth possessed her to try to get to Newcastle through our short cut? I shudder to think what the brambles in the field did to her stockings – and how she got over the stile in that skirt, I can’t imagine. As for trying to negotiate that bit by the beck in high heels, well!
The camera and I were quite flustered, but we did manage to get the lens cover off in time to to take this picture of her rear end, disappearing round the corner. It’s not often we have such a close brush with celebrity.