The funnyman who was also a sailor

Her complexion was as though she had been immersed in a mixture of one part whisky and three parts white wine. (Would she have tasted like the cocktail as well? I dont know sir.) Her eyes nose lips and ears had all had their own pretty little stories to tell. Together the sum total told a gargantuan story. Her hair was darker than the road under her feet and was oozing out of her cap like a cascade of crude oil. Her figure was like that of a balloon that was on a diet if balloons dieted at all and then tied in the middle with a string. Arent you a little too young to be acting funny with me? What I saw that the silly girl had got it all wrong. The situation needed correction on an emergency basis. I immediately started nodding my head to convey to her that I indeed was younger than her but realised that the second part of the question about acting funny needed shaking of the head. So I stopped the nodding halfway through and took up the shaking. This was a cross between nothing and nothing. I ended up making a complete fool of myself. The girl was getting impatient and had no time for my antics. To sit in the beautiful garden with a glass of chilled beer whenever a drizzle the size and sharpness of pine needles came down from the sky to ever-so-lightly caress us to the accompaniment of mournful songs from the HMV record player that was in the barracks was heaven on the Earth. Lord did we savour the moments so very thoroughly! Nostalgia threatens to drown me as I relive those days sitting in my upright chair at home now