Whether or not it was Sir Isaac Newton who discovered this irrevocable law of nature, i cannot truthfully say but the fact remains that no matter how unexpected or forceful the gust, a watched skirt will never rise beyond the limits of public decency.

Just for once, why can't my day be sprinkled with the potent magic of a Marilyn Moment, as in The Seven Year Itch or the unforgettable Kelly Le Brock scene in The Woman In Red?

Many's the time i've beheld some pretty maiden in a whispy, summers dress or flowing skirt when the wicked wind begins to play his tricks and beginning with a gentle ruffling soon advances to whipping at her hem, promising to reveal what ought never to be seen by a strangers' eyes.

As first a glimpse of thigh is tantalisingly revealed but for an instant, quickly followed by another, i seem almost paralysed and despite my most wilful attempts i cannot tear my eyes away from the scene for fear of missing that rarest of treats...the forbidden glance that must surely be so imminent now.

What colour will her underwear be?
Will it be a thong or french knickers?
Or has she gone au naturelle today?

The anticipation and expectation is almost too much to bear but no matter how the wind blows, willed on by to new heights by my own evil mind, it never quite manages to show me what it so cruelly promises...
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