34
The buzz of conversation dropped immediately. A few
more baleful glances and it stopped completely. She carried on singing. Soon
however the state of someone’s next-door-neighbour’s garden, and did
anybody see that new Touch of Frost on the telly last night, and other such
absorbing topics, became more important to certain members of the audience than
the state of Old Shep’s health and before long the buzz of conversation
was back to the level it was at before. The thing on the stage stuck it for a
short while longer then stopped singing again. “Shut the fuck up!”,
she bellowed. Some of audience shutted the fuck up immediately, but others were
more lax. Not for much longer though as the thing, making as though to unbutton
her shirt said: “Or have I to take off my bra?”
The effect was electric. All conversation ceased in a
nanosecond. Bond was quite amazed, not least because as unwholesome a sight as
the woman was she had one redeeming feature. A magnificent pair of breasts.
Large, full, round, and straining at the cotton of her lumberjack shirt like
two melons in a gunnysack. And yet no one wanted to see them. Not a soul.
Everyone in the room, every one, was looking at her, transfixed. She held their
collective gaze for about ten seconds, then smiled and said: “Well then.
Let’s have no bloody more of it,” then continued with the song.
