15,000 words added to the novel, and I'm getting brain-fade; so I thought I'd just pop this one in to keep you good people amused....

            


It happened a few years ago. In connection with my work,
I had to motor to the North, across the moors, down into York.
Mid December... lousy weather, and the Boss had called me in;
"You'd better take the four-wheel drive... they say that snow is coming soon."
As I drove up across the Pennines; in the east the clouds were grey
with that sombre, yellow tinge, that tells that snow is on its way.
Turn off the motorway at Preston; on up into Skipton Dale...
snow now beating on the windscreen... wipers struggling to prevail.
Getting deeper... getting thicker; this is rough... and, no Cellphone.
Air-con. wheezing; windscreen freezing... inside;
wish I'd stayed at home.

Slipping, sliding up the pass... losing traction in the snow;
down the box into low ratio; tyres biting... on we go.
Snowdrifts now above the hedgerows; I don't think I'll get too far...
better find an Inn, or something; then, in front of me, a car.
Half-buried in a snowbank; an old Porsche... with one wheel in the ditch;
gently... gently... touch the brakes... no ABS; just feel her twitch.
Slithering, sliding to a halt... the Porsche door opens, and I see
a slender, feminine leg appear, and touch the ground... so carefully.
I climb out of the Range Rover, and start across the icy mess,
into the freezing, driving snow to aid this Damsel in distress.

She is, indeed, a Damsel fair; all huddled in her winter coat...
with bright blue eyes, and flaxen hair... a Viking beauty, there's no doubt.
Shivering; with snowflakes clinging to her lashes... nose, all pink...
"Are you OK?"
"Yes, I am."
as, in the snow, her high heels sink.
Her face pressed tightly to my shoulder, arm firm round her slender waist,
we slip and slither to the Rover, where warm shelter... us, awaits.
"Thanks for stopping; I was frightened I would freeze... no one about."
"That's OK."
I start the engine... "We'll find somewhere to dry you out."
A mile or so along the road, a village road-sign... "Kettlesing"...
"Well, that's quite apt", I said to her;
a tiny smile, this quip did bring

to her lips, still tightly pursed with cold and damp... and shivering;
"Look, there's an Inn... let's try our luck," and slowly, carefully, pull in.
The Inn was old; with leaded windows... huge oak beams, and roaring fire...
the landlord; big and Yorkshire bred, came up, and cheerily enquired...
"A cup of coffee, hot and strong? Maybe with some whisky in?
I'll get the wife to fetch a blanket... she looks soaked, right to the skin."
I said, "What is the weather forecast? Can we travel on, today?"
"Not a chance, the road is blocked... the snow ploughs won't be out this way."
"Right; does this small place have a garage that can go and fetch her car?"
"Aye, lad... I'll go, and arrange it; happen that it's not too far."
"Just down the road..."

"Alright, they'll get it... and, tonight, you'll want to stay?"...
I glanced at her, still shivering... she gave a sidelong glance at me...
and, answering before I could; said, "Yes, please, have you a spare bed?"
"Aye, lass," replied the landlord, as he turned to me, and winked... then, said
"I only have a double room. It's got a bath, and toilet too...
She looked at me, and calmly said, "Yes, thanks... I'm sure that it will do."
Later then; when she was warmed before the fire, she said to me,
"I'll go and get these wet things off, and have a hot bath...
presently...
please could you ask the landlord's wife to dry my clothes off, really well?
She rose and walked across the room... the blanket smelled of warm Chanel.

Gather my thoughts by the fire. An icy blast... in, burst the door;
a ruddy face... "I've got the Porsche; we've pulled 'er out, and towed 'er here.
No damage; she ain't got a scratch... she's in the car park, good as new".
l reached into my wallet... "Nay, lad... happen... just a pint'll do."
"I must give you something, for the trouble I have put you to."
He smiled, and said "alright, me lad... then, just a tenner, that'll do."
The landlord came, and touched my arm..."The lass's clothes are getting dry;
you'd better see that she's alright"... he said, and looked me in the eye.
I said goodnight, and climbed the stairs... wondering... just what to do;
from down below, a quiet laugh... "He'll be alright tonight, y'know."

No, nothing now, is going to happen. Strangers, caught by circumstance;
It's just somewhere to sleep tonight... it's not a Mills and Boon Romance!
Knock on the massive oaken door; lift the latch...
a soft
"Come in..."
I walk into a history book... great, spreading beams, and panelling;
a log fire on a great stone hearth... the bed, a huge and soft delight;
so typical of Yorkshire... feather-down, against the cold North nights.
And, in the bed; her flaxen hair spread on the pillow, like a cloud;
pink, and warm now, from her bath... this really shouldn't be allowed.
She turned the linen sheet aside...
"Oh, come to bed. You'll catch your death..."
"It's not death I'm concerned about," I thought;
she smiled... I caught my breath...

and slipped into the luscious warmth of pure Egyptian cotton sheets;
she snuggled up, so close to me that I could feel her soft heartbeat.
Her perfumed hair against my cheek... she moved still closer then, and pressed
her silky thigh along my thigh... her soft, warm bosom on my chest.
I turned to say... and then, she raised her head, and gave me such a kiss
that burned down to my very soul... oh hell, how long can I resist?
Not long...
She made the choice for me... reached, down and gently touched me... there;
she straddled me, and leaning down... beneath the curtain of her hair,
we kissed again... much longer, now; tongues intertwining, so gently...
she smiled; and moving with her hips...
her velvet warmth enveloped me.

And in that great, warm Northern bed, she gently made sweet love with me
no words, no promises to break... just sweet, consensual ecstasy.
And, in the morning, with the sunshine streaming through the leaded panes
I woke, and found that she was gone... I didn't even know her name.
But, on the pillow, perfumed still... from where, her flaxen hair had lain...
a note;
a single written line that said...
"Goodbye, and thanks again."
And, in the car park; two straight lines... her car tyre tracks in virgin snow...
out to the road, now cleared; no clue to tell me... which way did she go?
I sometimes pass that lonely Inn, up on the moors, past Skipton Dale;
and softly smile, as I recall my Viking, and my Winter's tale...

Motoring on past Harrogate, York Minster will be looming soon...
it reads just like a novel,
yes...
A Wild Romance by Mills and Boon!

'Bye for now;

D.