This phrase was the tipping point in every story sent into "Readers' Letters" of the soft porn mags of the 70's that I splashed out on.  The Marge Proops of sex advice was Fiona Richmond.  But I was on holiday at the time I wrote this and without "research resources" and remembered her name wrongly as Fiona Millicent.

 

Dear Fiona Millicent, I write about an incident

Which happened on a golfing holiday I took in Troon

I’d mentioned to the hotel staff

The unmade bed, the dirty bath

The Manager said he’d address the matter very soon;

So shortly after that I let the cleaner in the room.

I’d guess her age about 18; she looked a star of stage or screen

Her blouse was full to bursting and she’d legs up to the hilt;

She tidied round with mop and broom

She cleaned the bath, the sink, the room;

She bent across my king-sized bed and straightened up the quilt;

Image my surprise when she lifted up her kilt.

 

Dear Fiona Millicent, I’m normally quite reticent

To talk of my experiences few and far between;

But I was shopping at my butcher’s

And I’d bought about as much as

I needed when the butcher’s boy eyed me very keen

He asked me out so sweetly that I felt just like a queen.

He picked me up dead sharp at 8

And for a treat on our first date

He took me to the pictures in a little town called Leith;

The film was called “All Hands on Deck”

And starred Jean Harlow, Gregory Peck;

We said that from this boredom we would both need some relief;

Imagine my surprise when he offered me his beef.

 

Dear Fiona Millicent, your column is magnificent;

Please let me share my story of our vicar and his wife;

Moving lately to our parish

Came the vicar and wife, Alice,

Who invited me for card games at the vicarage in Fife;

She’d worked in Ayr casino and was sharper than a knife.

We played a hand or two of whist, “Just for matchsticks,” he’d insist;

She shuffled cards so dextrously, with certainty of touch

But dealt the last card in my lap

(A ruse to see my hand, perhaps?)

I put it down to nervousness – an accident as such.

Imagine my surprise when his hand dropped to my crotch.

 

Dear Fiona Millicent I’m really rather innocent

Of matters of the flesh since I come from Tunbridge Wells

But beauty far beyond mere speech

Appeared to me upon the beach

Bedecked in pink and purple reins and tinkliest of bells;

The sweetest donkey ever on the sands of Ingoldmells.

It was the prettiest I’ve seen, its coat a luscious, golden sheen

I stroked it on its forehead and I gazed into its eyes

I dropped my coin into the sand

(Which, truly, was not what I’d planned)

The donkey got quite frisky and its plonker grew in size

As I bent to pick the pound up – well, imagine my surprise.