This thought however, went straight out of the window at the first opportunity to repeat my little trick. It was on a weekend and I was at home with my wife and one of her friends was coming round. I had met this friend before and I did rather fancy her, but basically there was no chance I would ever get to fuck her. When she turned up she had her little daughter with her, whom I had not met before. She caught my eye straight away, as she was the prettiest little thing I think I’ve ever seen. Unbelievably cute and wearing a very sweet little flower print dress, white ankle socks, the type with the lovely frill round the top and shiny black shoes, with a little strap and silver buckle. Her perfect youthful complexion and big blue eyes just added to the beautiful little vision that she was.It was around lunchtime and my wife said she would make a bite to eat, which she did, making some delicious sandwiches. As we were eating our lunch, I was constantly looking at the little girl and I. “Jesus Boss,” he says . . . “Jesus Boss.” “It’s OK sarge. They’ll have you shipped in no time.” I love him. He’s a West Country man – unflappable – he knows how to work the boys – when to hurt them—when to let up – when to diss them – when to drop a kind word in their ears. We’re a group of terminal cynics. We have this constant love-hate thing. I try to distance myself from it all and let Riley do the close-in work. You have to keep your distance from the men because all they do is bitch and moan and if you get with them before you know you’re bitching and moaning yourself. We only allow bitching two ranks up. The men bitch about sergeants. Riley bitches about captains . . . I bitch about majors and colonels. Riley has a way of saying “saving yourself Sir” when we’re into the Johnny Walker and he’s diatribing every officer in the British Army. He lets me off lightly because I take the same shit as he does . . . and because so far I’ve kept everyone alive. I often wonder why I.
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