heelers dazzles another love struck waif

Book shop on Grafton Street this evening.
A rather flirtatious girl sat at my feet.
She was comely in the sexalacious sense of comely.
I was posited in the window seat enjoying a free read.
And she actually sat at my feet.
There was a mild surreptitious contact between her back and my knee.
Presently she moved from the ground up onto the window ledge beside me.
Then she addressed me directly.
Favouring me with one of those classic elusive sidelong glances.
Ye gods.
Ye olde glance through ye curtain of dark hair routine.
I thought they outlawed that during the last days of the Clinton administration.
Her words rang faint and fantastical like music in my ears.
"When will the shop be closing?" she breathed with strange high mystic significance.
My lips babbled an over eager: "Nine o'clock."
The universe filled up with stillness.
Presently I could take no more of this devilish drole de drame.
I decided to cut to the chase.
"Where are you from?" sez I.
"Austria," quoth she.
"How about a coffee?" sez me.
"You're too old," shot back she.
And from somewhere not too far away, the soundtrack to a 1970's Joan Collins soft porn film kicked in.
The soundtrack went:
"There are good girls,
And there's bad,
The bad are all I've ever had.
That's why they call her the bitch,
She's a wicked wicked witch,
That's why they call her the bitccccchhhh."
You know bold readers, the soundtrack to The Bitch really did kick in at that moment.
Most appropriate it was too.
Will I suppose if I insist on being attracted to women who actually look evil, I needn't be too surprised when they don't turn out to be Polly Of Primrose Hill.
Ah Polly Of Primrose Hill.
Now there's a cracking bird.
Whoarrrrgh, as we do say in the trade.
But I digress.
I exit the bookshop with what grace I can. Not young and not renewable but man. As the lefty poet Thomas Kinsella always used to say when Austrian sexors shot him out of the saddle.
Late this same evening I visited Hilary in hospital. Hilary is a teacher who is currently working on a project for holy God that involves bringing new life into the universe.
I mean, she is preggers.
She seemed quite cheered by the story of my adventures with Miss Austria.
I finished my anecdote with a brief rendition of the Joan Collins song.
Then I noticed.
The ward had fallen silent.
A half dozen pregnant women were sitting up in their beds craning to get a better look at me.
They seemed awfully amused about something.
My handsome preraphaelite features flushed bright red.
Bidding the Hilary adieu, I headed for the door.
I exited the room head held high, a vaguely gallant figure, perpetually ill at ease in the world and for ever at odds with it.
With some difficulty I resisted the urge to stop at each bed as I passed, and ask the grinning preggerses out for coffee.
Optimist though I am, I knew I'd probably be too old for all of them.