My thanks to R. P. Weston and Fred Murray who, in 1910, wrote the song that inspired this story, and to Herman's Hermits, who released a successful recording of it in 1965.
Henry Marsh is my name. At least, that's how I've always pronounced my first name, but all my Cockney friends and neighbors know me and address me as "'Ennery" and I have started to do the same. In fact, they call me Ennery the Eighth, and I'll explain why.
I came to London a couple of years ago on a business trip and stopped in a nice little pub to have a drink and maybe a game of darts and maybe make a new friend or two. Standing at the bar by herself was one of the most desirable new friends I have ever seen. The person standing there was about forty years old, and what I would call a beautiful woman. She had an open face with strong, regular features and didn't seem to be wearing more than a minimum of makeup, if that much. Her long, dark brown hair was combed or brushed back behind her ears and allowed to spill casually over her shoulders, as if she had other, more important things to do than curl or otherwise fuss with it.
I have always been highly partial to womanly curves, and I was looking at them in abundance that evening. Her breasts, snugly encased in a green sweater, were large, and her waist was clear evidence that she didn't suffer from anorexia. Under her rather plain, gray skirt, succulent hips and a curvy ass flared out from her waist and tapered to sturdy legs. She was a woman who looked good, and knew it, and knew she didn't need to go to a lot of trouble to do so. I stepped up to the bar and sidled over until I was standing close to her.
The very appealing woman gave me a rather stern look, and I came close to backing away from her, which was probably what she intended I do, but I persevered. "Hello. My name is Henry Marsh..." and that was as far as I got.
The object of my feeble pickup attempt turned to face me and interrupted what I was trying to say. "Ah, Ennery," she greeted me. "How are you? I've never seen you in here before. What are you drinking?" She spoke with the same Cockney accent as the other patrons, but I will make no effort to duplicate it in writing, except for the way my name was pronounced by her and others I met after that first night.
"I'm Peggy, Ennery, and I'm a widow. I own the shop next door to this pub. Are you married?"
"No, I'm not." That was the truth; I'd always been too busy to try very hard to find a wife, and any woman who interested me had never had any interest in me. Consequently, I was a forty year old bachelor trying to pick up an attractive Cockney woman in a pub. And, apparently, enjoying extremely good luck in the attempt.
"Ah, good; you're not married. What say we finish our drinks and pop over to my flat above my shop for some fun and games?" Peggy held possessively onto my arm while she spoke.
I could hardly believe my luck. My new companion didn't even wait for an answer, but downed her drink and started for the exit, still holding my arm, and I had no interest in pulling free from her grip. Through the doorway she hurried, towing me along, and to a door in the corner of the next building. She unlocked it and pulled me through the entrance, hardly even slowing her determined stride until we were inside and she had stopped to secure the door behind us and turn on the light. I saw we were standing in a small, square, dimly lighted area at the foot of a narrow flight of stairs.
Peggy stood facing me and leaning against the door. "My flat is up there, Ennery, but we're away from the crowd in the pub now." I didn't know quite why she said that, until she held her arms open, obviously wanting an embrace and, almost certainly, a kiss.
When I approached Peggy in the pub, I had little hope of succeeding in picking her up, and I certainly never imagined things could work out as easily as they seemed to be doing. We hugged and, as soon as out lips met in a kiss, her tongue demanded entrance to my mouth. Never one to be rude to a lady, especially a lady as beautiful as the one I was holding in my arms, I opened wide and let her explore.
"I like the way you kiss," she told me after we stopped to breathe. "Do you like these?" she asked, while lifting my hands and covering her breasts with them.
"Very nice," I replied, and I meant it. I had noticed her breasts were large and pleasing to the eyes, but they were also firm and supple and extremely pleasing to my hands.
"I'm glad you like them. Now, what say we go upstairs to my flat, and you can get to know my girls a lot better, and they can get to know you?"
Without waiting for an answer to what was a rhetorical question anyhow, Peggy grabbed my arm and started toward her flat. I gladly followed. In the pub, I had noticed that her ass and hips were curvaceous but, as I followed them up the stairs, I realized just how generally sexy her body was. The stairway led directly to her living quarters, which consisted of a sitting room, a small kitchen, which I didn't see until the next day, and a bedroom. The latter room was our destination, and I didn't see much else of her flat until many highly enjoyable hours later.
I didn't really see that much of the bedroom either, because my attention was all focused on the inhabitant. Peggy stood by her bed, which had already been turned down, and held her arms open for another hug, which entailed another kiss. This time, my tongue met hers halfway, and had a small wrestling match. As we kissed, Peggy removed her arms from around me, and I felt her unbuttoning my shirt and, when our mouths separated again, she pulled it from my back and shoulders. I was wearing an undershirt, but not for long, because she peeled it off over my head and tossed it aside.
