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One fine afternoon in mid February the sun chose to cast its watery rays upon us mortals who were freezing our asses off here on this fair isle. Hale Britania! It must have been months since we had seen the mystic orb. Temperatures rose up to 6�C [about 43�F for those in the colonies]. Said I, "Jacquel, get thee into the village and see what's going on. Are the natives restless? Carpe Diem!! and so on."

After a quick butcher's in town I found myself at one of the local pubs. A wee dram of the Old MacNushy [a volitile blended Scotch, aged not less than three months in plastic barrels] to quench my thirst, and who should I encounter but my friend Mervin Seaswell. The cognoscente know him as "Merv the Perv." He is the wretched perverted peeper who photgraphed me wanking back on a summer's night. Remember? It was marvelous.

Merv can be charming at times such as this moment. You see, he bought us a round for which I loved him dearly. Time and idle chatter passed and he suggested that I might accompany him out onto the moor. Once there we could put his camera to good use capturing images of my body like the one you see here.

This sounded like a capital idea to me since it offered an opportunity to be with the clever and delightful man. You know, he does have decent equipment too. Oh shame Jacquel.....

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Updated 13 March, 2002
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