sic transit gloria honeys

Heelers browsing in a bookshop on Grafton street in the Celtic capital of Dublin.
He pauses.
He has felt a stirring in the force. Something he hasn't felt since...
He frowns trying to remember.
His eyes wander towards the window.
And lo!
Perched on the window seat, all undulating legs and short skirt, is a blonde honey of the genus Aiiieeeaiiiieeeaiiii-icus.
Heelers goggles.
That is to say, he looks mildly appreciative of the vision before him.
She looks up.
Their eyes meet.
Aiiiieeeaiiiaiiiii again.
Because she knows me.
Ah yes bold readers.
Life has few crueller twists for the young lecher about town than when he is caught in mid ogle by someone of fond acquaintance.
For verily we know each other well.
Why, if it isn't ould showjumpery.
The second most beautiful girl in the world.
(Remind me to tell you about the other sometime. And no, my fond lady obsessions of the internet, you're not eligible for this chart unless I've actually met you.)
And damn.
She's still beautiful.
I mean luminous.
I have followed her fortunes from afar since last we met. She's come close a few times to getting on the Irish showjumping team.
Journalists like interviewing her for the same reasons I liked interviewing her.
She is the summation of all my infantile fantasies.
She's Church of Ireland too.
I mean a member of the church set up by Henry the Eighth way back when.
I'm telling you folks those girls are wild.
Imagine the fun we'd have before I converted her to Catholicism.
But I digress.
Occasionally I see her in some sports event on television and pray fervently that the horse will fall on her.
Ah.
What greater curse than to love, that which you cannot have etc etc.
And here she is today.
If I'd had some warning I would have at least tried to carry it off with a show of benign indifference.
But there was no chance of that now.
A sheepish smile and a quick retreat.
She shines now only in my memory.