The bag was swinging in the breeze, hooked on the overhanging shrubby branches that stuck out onto the road. It was a more or less a country lane so no pruning was undertaken. How the bag came to be there was anybody’s guess, most likely snagged from an unsuspecting cyclist pillion.
l couldn’t resist the temptation to unhook it, only to see if there was any identiﬁcation init you understand. I mean, it could hold money, the heist from a bank job, someone’s personal diaries, or stolen jewelry. The possibilities were endless. Resting my ownbicycle on the grassy bank, I carefully untangled the bag. It was not very heavy and gave to the touch, so no hard or large jewelry or silver. It did not feel lumpy either, so no bank notes. I was loath to plunge my hand into it, so no other course but to empty it out on the ground.
Finding a clear place on the bank I, —-with great trepidation, tipped the bag upside down. No heaps of valuables, money or such came tumbling out, but with a soft, silky, slithery sigh, a quite large pile of what was obviously ladies under wear, of the larger size. Although they were of the larger size, this lady was no shrinking violet. Four pairs,
Scarlet, black, lime green, and electric blue, all gleaming smooth just waiting to caress the wearer. Delving a little deeper, I found a book with an address that was not so very far away. I knew of the place, so tipping the soft bundle of underwear back into the bag, I continued my way to deliver the garments back to the rightful owner, who was mosteffusive in her thanks. And by way of explanation, said that she wasn’t usually in the habit of leaving her underwear on grassy country banks, well not four pairs at a time anyway.