It was in the middle of the most complicated counting and colour change row of knitting my intarsia scarf that he said, ‘Are my knees straight.’ Glancing up he was stood there, pants dropped down by his ankles. A few stitches and my jaw dropped. ‘I said. Are my knees straight.’ It’s not often at my age I am gifted with such a beautiful view. David Beckham in all his glory in the underpants add eat your hat. There Jim stood, displaying his most beautiful legs, gorgeous curve of his quads, brown from the sun and covered with hair bleached with exposure to the sun.
‘Well! Are they straight.’
‘What’?’
‘My knees.’
my knitting’s on the floor as I stand up for a better view. Walk slowly round to see his perfect glutes, taught from Pilates.
‘My knees aren’t back there.’
Wow. He’s got lovely legs and a perfect bum. Slowly I sit back down onto the sofa to take in his lower torso.
‘Come on then. Are they straight?’
‘The light.’ I reply. ‘It isn’t too good down here.’ Rising from the sofa I go to the door. ‘Better view in the bedroom. Follow me.’
Its a dogs life 