The watcher crouched behind rubbish bins overflowing with a fortnight’s stinking detritus. The warm weather had come early to Cambridge this year and was causing him some discomfort. He stealthily changed his position, eased his limbs and averted his nose, trying to catch a fresh breeze down the alleyway. At least he had something pleasant to distract and occupy his other senses.

He allowed his gaze to be drawn back to the two girls standing, arms around each other’s waists, teetering on the edge of the pavement. Well, why not? Everyone within a hundred yards of them was staring at the couple. Skimpy skirts with low-slung belts glinting with silver discs, boob-tubes, and stiletto heels-the summer uniform of the Cambridge Working Girl. You couldn’t get away any longer with calling them “prostitutes.” The public felt more comfortable with the delusion created by the use of the innocent-sounding “girls,” and “working” suggested reassuringly that they might even be paying income tax.

This pair were shouting cheerful insults and invitations at the drivers of cars braking for the bend where they’d positioned themselves. Unsuccessfully so far. Most had slowed dramatically to look at the girls; some had leaned over and shouted encouragement or lascivious promises. None had suggested serious business. The watcher shook his head in an expression of knowing irony. What else did they expect? On a Saturday afternoon, these blokes had other things on their mind. They were on their way to a football match. And not just any match-the next Cup round was being played at the local ground up the road. Sex would always take second place to football. Breathing took second place to a Cup fixture.

To relieve his boredom, the watcher indulged in a little fantasy. Blonde or redhead, if he had the choice? Any man’s first impulse would be towards the blonde. Tall and slender with a cloud of shoulder-length fair hair, she looked like the angel on his grandma’s Christmas tree-until she opened her mouth.