Hammersmith 02: The Welcome Break

This picks up right where the previous installment left off, with no exposition. There's no sex in this one, either. Be patient, Ian's still getting his head round the situation, and hasn't had the opportunity just yet. It'll happen.

"Doing all right?" Nigel asked, as he merged onto the M route and accelerated quickly to top gear, merging further into the inner, or transwarp, lane.

"I think so," I said, staring pensively out the window, "but I have questions."

I looked round at Nigel. "I have a lot of questions, actually. This entire day has been surreal. I'm in another country, riding down the motorway - do you realize I've never ridden in a car nude before? Everything about this is taking me out of my depth, or at least my comfort zone. I'm in another country, riding nude down the motorway, looking forward to a new job and a new life, all of it entirely without clothing... I'm sorry, I'm ranting, aren't I?"

Nigel chuckled. "Decompressing, at any rate." He glanced over at me, then back to the road, managing the merge from the M25 onto the M3 to get us out of London.

"And that's to be expected," he went on, eyes on the road and on a sports car screaming up on us. "You've been asked to jump in at the deep end, and you've done quite well so far, really. My first day full time, I was nervous as my Aunt Edna at the pie judging. I made it down to the cafe on the corner, got my usual takeaway order, and back to my flat without running or ducking for cover, but then shook for nearly an hour. Thank God I'd picked a Saturday to start out on."

I found myself wishing I'd been able to get some practice in, doing the full time nude thing, before I'd arrived in England and had to strip off in the gents' at Gatwick. But New York did not have that kind of opportunity, which was part of why I was here.

"But then the dog needed walkies," Nigel went on, giving the sports car a hard glare and a growl as it cut us off for the ramp, "and that had to be taken care of, and that got me back out of the flat. Tending to mundane business got me past the initial nerves, and to the realization that I'd crossed a bridge that, while it wasn't on fire, was decidedly one way. Everyone on the block had seen me nude by the time I got Jasmine back to the flat, and I'd spoken with half of them, between her needing to sniff everything and the run for the bagel earlier, and it got easier from there. You're at least a practicing naturist, right?"

"Yes," I confirmed, watching the landscape roll past. "I've been a naturist for a number of years now, but that was all at home, or at an event or campground or resort, in a contained space, if you know what i mean? A controlled environment, where nudity was allowed, but I get here and the first thing I have to do is strip off in the bathroom? And then walk through the airport? You realize I've never ridden in a car nude before?" As soon as I asked, I realized I was repeating myself.

"I'm sorry," said Nigel, actually seeming to mean the apology. "Are we pushing you along too quickly? Mr. Hammersmith feels it works best if you make a clean break of it, just take it all in at once, but that can be overwhelming for some."

"It's a bit much, yes," I told him. "I mean, I'll get used to it." I glanced down at my nude body, the seat belt being the only thing covering any part of me as we picked up speed and merged into the inner lane for the long run before the M3 turned into the A303.

"I sort of have to get used to it now, don't I." I took a moment to stare out the window. Thankfully, Nigel recognized a rhetorical question when he heard one and remained silent.

"I mean," I finally continued, "I walked through an airport nude, and right on out to the car park, and now we're flying along down the road, and there's been this sudden expansion." I waved a hand aimlessly, at a loss for the right words.

"The walls fell away," Nigel said. "The fence around the resort fell down, and now you're out in the world. Rest assured, there is a safe space up ahead. We'll get you to Trewinney, and checked into your flat in the residential tower, and you'll be inside a naturist-only zone at that point. Give you some time to breathe."

Nigel had waited patiently for me to run down, obviously understanding that I was feeling more than a little anxious. After all, I had in fact just stripped down in the loo and walked nude through Gatwick Airport. Even with the law on one's side, it was a bit daunting.

"I found it a bit daunting," Nigel echoed my inner voice. "The first week ran into some choppy waters, but Mr. Hammersmith got everything smoothed over, and at this point, a month on, it's gotten commonplace enough that folks in Trewinney don't seem to even notice any more."

I sighed. "Well, that's a relief. I'm not going straight out into the open public, although I just did." That last was in a more accusatory tone than I meant. I took a deep breath, held it a second, let it out slowly. Felt some of the tension ease. "That was most definitely leaping in at the deep end."

Nigel chuckled. "Mr. Hammersmith is not one for half measures," he said. "He's asked each and every one of us to take up the lifestyle full-time as soon as the ink was dry."

"You weren't a naturist before you went full time?" I asked.

Nigel shook his head. "Not as such," he replied diffidently. "I mean, I'd been across the Channel and gone to the nude beaches in France, and I went to the spa in Berlin when I was there for the Love Parade, but I hadn't given it much thought as a lifestyle."

"So what changed?"

Nigel glanced aside at me. Getting my attention onto his own experience was easing my anxiety. Nigel kept on with the exposition.

"Job offer, really."

I blinked. "You went nude full time for the position?" Well, I had...

Nigel laughed. "Well, when you put it that way... " he let it trail off, and let me process for a beat, waiting for me to snicker when I realized my double entendre, then picked back up. "I saw it as an opportunity to get in on the ground floor with something that's going to go very large indeed. Careers are like that. You have to make a very large decision when you're young that will shape the rest of your life."

"And you decided on Hammersmith and Farrell? And all this?" I waved a hand generally at myself and Nigel.

"It's total commitment," Nigel admitted. "But then so is pretty much every other career. I shed my kit and got my PN cert the day I signed the contract, and moved to Trewinney the following Tuesday. I've been living as a full time naturist only a hair over a month now, but I'll tell you, I've quickly gotten used to it."

"Really." I glanced back down at my own nude form. I was still so keyed up from the walk through the airport, and the near confrontation with the woman out front, that Nigel had fended off with his Practising Naturist certification card, that my balls hadn't let back down, and my skin was still all goosebumps.

"Absolutely. The pivot point came a few days in, when I stopped caring how other people might react." Nigel gave a quiet snort of amusement. "Once I let go of that fear of being judged by people who don't even follow the practice, I lost most of my self consciousness straight away. I mean, I'm aware of my nudity, but no more so than a textile is aware of their clothing, and I just don't give a toss about their rule, any more than an Orthodox Jew cares about the Anglican Book of Common Prayer."

I gave that some thought. In the silence, Nigel added a further comment.

"The fact that their rule does not apply to me chafes them, as it always does when a minority does something different from the majority, and that's where the PN cert comes in."

"The Official Government Fuck-off Card," I said. "I've already learned to stay close to you until I have my own."

Nigel snorted derisively. "There's also a safety in numbers thing," he went on. "One naturist is just a nude man, while two are more obviously part of the movement. And when you've got a residential tower slowly filling up with us... "

"That's another thing." I turned half in my seat to face him, very conscious of my skin sticking to the vinyl. "I read through all the materials the firm sent me, and I've talked with a couple of your HR people, but there's a lot that was left out. For starters, how the hell did Hammersmith and Farrell convince the town of Trewinney to let a bunch of full time naturists move in? And how's that actually going, having us out in public? I mean, I'm going to find out for myself in just a very few hours, but I'd like to have some kind of idea what sort of tempest I might be walking into."

"Oh, no tempest," Nigel was quick to reassure me. "There was less furor over the announcement of the Trewinney office and residential tower than one might have expected. By then, the Malpeth Act was ten months old. While there hadn't been the nationwide surge of public nudity some had feared, there were those who elected to be the first to get their PN cert and set the trend, so to speak."

"Like that Green politician up north."

He laughed. I was glad I was affording him so much amusement, I thought dryly. "Oh yes, the famous Naked Nathan. Although I must admit, he did spot the direction things were going well in advance of his party, and stole a march on the leadership. Campaigning nude in support of the Malpeth Act was a stroke of genius, made absolutely sure he was in the press every time he did anything."

He signaled over into the center lane, watched a couple of motorbikes blur past, then signaled back into the inner lane. "Put him first past the post as well," he went on, "people who disagreed with his nudity liked his candor. He'll be standing for Parliament in two years, mark my word. Nathan is credited with helping get the Malpeth bill passed. He put his political career on the line, and that impressed people. His appearances stirred up grass roots support for the bill, and got people contacting their MP about it."

"And he's still nude?" I asked.

"Oh, absolutely," Nigel affirmed, rather emphatically. "He was at the court registry office when it opened on day one. They made a bit of a political event of it, him getting the first PN cert to be issued in the county."

"I mean, this all sounds good," I said, although there was still the question of how the hell yet another coastal village agreed to go clothing optional, "but in the meantime, we've got another few hours of travel ahead of us, and at some point, I'm going to need the gents for its original purpose."

Nigel glanced over to me, then to the mirror, and gave the car just a little more pedal. "There's a Welcome Break at Penselwood, about halfway along," he said. "We'll be going past Stonehenge if you want to stop for the obligatory snaps, but I don't recommend using the loo there. It's not serviced nearly often enough."

I glanced down at myself. "Um..."

Nigel snorted. "You've never been to Stonehenge on Midsummer," he told me, a bit archly. "The police gave up arresting people for lewd conduct eight years ago after a Wiccan couple argued in court that it was their Great Rite or somesuch. Freedom of religion apparently extends to fucking in the grass around Stonehenge on Midsummer."

I took all that in, gave a slow nod. "Think our visit might be relatively calm then," I said.

"I'd planned to put in a bit past there for petrol," Nigel continued. "The car's doing well, but I want to fill the tank before we cross into Cornwall, as the prices go up when you cross the Taymar. Some sort of Brexit nonsense the new government is still trying to clean up. Give them time, they just got the UK scheduled to convert to the euro. That's going to roll out in three months, at which point we'll find out just how much dosh people have in their sock drawers. Undoing Brexit and bringing the UK into the EU properly has been under way for nearly a year now, and we've still got another year before we get all the connections back into place and can go borderless on the Channel side."

"Amazing," I said. "As fast as the USA is heading the other direction, the Nude Revolution here seems to have swept in a more rational government."

"Pretty much," Nigel agreed. "The Greens picked up a lot of seats in the local elections, and that rolled over to the parliamentary polls. The Tories got reduced to crossbenchers and Labour is now the Loyal Opposition, which is making them question their own values, and about fecking time for that if you ask me."

I blinked. That last was the most vehement I'd seen Nigel get in our brief time together.

"So we took the M25 out of London," Nigel said, changing the subject to a potentially safer one. "We stayed on that up to the M3, where we turned west."

"Where that Lotus or whatever it was went buzzing past."

He frowned. "Right. The M3 becomes the A303 somewhere around North Waltham, and then that becomes the A30 just past Newcott. That'll take us all the way across the Taymar and right up the Lanhydrock, where we'll switch to local roads for the rest of the drive."

He paused for a glance at the mirror, and out the side windows, keeping a weather eye on the traffic around us. "Figure four hours on the motorway, give or take, and half an hour of meandering through the countryside. If Trewinney goes large, the firm's going to expand the dock and put in a ferry and cargo pier, rather than try to improve the roads."

That was interesting. "Cheaper?" I asked.

"Oh, that too," he affirmed, "but mostly it's the land rights and the National Trust and all getting involved. You can't widen a road in Cornwall without hitting a Roman wall, or someone's freehold boundary, or some other ancient annoyance."

"Hm." I gave that a bit of thought. I had just about chewed on the question enough to get it into shape when Nigel spoke up and I lost the chain.

"To get back to an earlier point," he said, "about comfort zones. Trewinney will be at the boundary of that. The larger part of what Hammersmith offers is a safe space for people who want to try out naturism, find out what all the fuss is about. Our first-time visit rate doubled when the town of Malpeth went clothing optional two years back. The Malpeth Act passing last year doubled attendance again for all the naturist centres."

"Okay," I said, digging out the folder from my messenger bag. "Which gets us around to the actual products, and the financial reason for Trewinney."

"Yes, sir." His use of the honorific jarred me a moment, reminding me that the hot twink I was having a business conversation with was not only a coworker, but an intern and probably a decade younger than me. The stray tingle in my groin died away, and my cock, which had thought about rising to the occasion, subsided.

Meanwhile, Nigel carried on without a pause, having utterly failed to notice the department head next to him having a moment.

"The first product is already on the market. Hammersmith developed a longer lasting mineral sunblock. It uses a collagen binder, so it sticks to your skin, doesn't want to rub off, makes it effectively waterproof, so you get triple the time in the sun before you have to reapply. We've had to job it out to a firm in Germany just to be able to make enough to keep up with the demand."

He glanced aside at me, and another jolt hit me as I realized he was seeking my approval for his recitation of the facts. Okay, the office power dynamic and the age difference were enough already, I didn't need being treated as a teacher giving him an exam layered on. I needed to find someone closer to my own age, maybe not with the firm, and fairly quickly, or my sexual frustrations were going to become noticeable.

One of the rules I've learned as a male naturist is, don't walk around horny. If you've got the opportunity for a casual, take it. You'll both (or all) be grateful for getting your hormones calmed back down. If you need to step aside and stroke one out so you don't walk into a meeting at half mast, take the time, and learn to be quiet in the last stall.

I was going to be riding in the car with Nigel for another three hours, give or take. The Welcome Break would be a public restroom, and I definitely didn't want to start my time in Britain by being arrested for tearooming. Keeping the conversation on the company's product line seemed like a safe option.

Certainly not an arousing one.

"And it's so popular partly because the chemical sunblocks used in the States are illegal here." I picked up the narrative, confirming his recitation and my own study of the folder I now had out, largely in case I needed something to lay over my lap, by adding a few facts.

"I mean," Nigel said, "being coral bleaching agents will result in that."

I waved a hand. "Fair enough."

"What we've got under development, and will, touch wood, be the first product made in the Trewinney factory, is an enzyme based washing powder, which people think is funny, that naturists who don't wear clothes have to do laundry. But there's bedding, and linens, and then there's sitting towels, which sometimes get very nasty stains. That's just the nature of things, you know?"

Nigel's turn to wave a hand aimlessly, one he could briefly spare from the steering. I gave him a nod of encouragement, go on.

"So the washing powder uses a combination of enzymes to lift out the organic stain without bleaching the dyes," he said. "You can get your colourful sitting towel back into good order without it fading. And since it's enzyme based, it's biodegradable. Won't cause environmental damage. That's in testing right now. If it works out, it'll be the first product manufactured at Trewinney. But I said that already." He looked actually concerned that he'd repeated himself.

"It's fine," I reassured him. "Not like we're short on time, it's still what, another hour until Stonehenge?"

He glanced at the dashboard clock, then the GPS. "Hour and a quarter, I should think."

We continued on doing the product review, and discussing the Trewinney effort. I took the opportunity to rubberduck a few thoughts on data architecture. Nigel had obvious experience at that, and knew when to nod, and say, "and so?" at the right moment, even if he wasn't following a word of the technical jargon I was reeling off.

Soon enough, we were signaling out of the transwarp lane, to the middle, or through lane, and then out to the merge lane to swing through the Longbarrow roundabout and onto the local road up to the Stonehenge Visitor Centre. I started feeling apprehensive when we slowed for the roundabout, and becoming actively anxious as we pulled into the gravel lot.

"You all right?" Nigel inquired, sparing me a brief glance as he navigated the parking lot's download and pay app.

"I'm not sure," I confessed. "I'm about to step out of a car at a national monument nude. There's a high expectation of arrest here."

He held back a laugh, tried for a grave nod and got a smirk. "First day nerves. Come on, let's get you a clean break made of it, shall we?"

He stepped out of the car, took a moment to stretch. I quickly looked away and got out of the car myself. As hoped, the slightly chill air of the late morning, coupled with a light mist that drifted across the fields, cooled my crotch and kept Nigel's stretch from causing problems. And then there was the anxiety of standing in the parking lot nude, and the old man in the National Trust jacket who was bustling over toward us, looking rather cross. Well, shit, I knew it couldn't last.

"No climbin through the fence!" he yelled at us, as soon as he was halfway across the lot. "You stay off the damn stones, you lot!"

"Um," I managed. This wasn't what I was expecting to be yelled at about.

Nigel chuckled. "We're not Druids," he tried to reassure the man.

The caretaker stopped a few paces short of us, close enough to talk but out of contagion range. "The hell you're not!" he snapped. "Who the hell else shows up here naked as the day they's born? Nar, you got your permit for Midsummer and you think it gives you some kind of rights all year round. You stay on the path!" And with that, he threw a disgusted, dismissive wave at us, and stomped off back to the Visitor Centre, going round the back where we heard a door slam a few seconds later.

Nigel thought about calling after him, and trying to sort out the misconception, but then just shrugged it off with another chuckle.

"Told you things had gone a bit feral here," he said, and led the way into the Visitor Centre.

We bought tickets from a young woman who seemed actually bored with us, took the short walk out to the menhir ring, and took a few photos. That was another thing.

You don't take photos at a nudist resort. You just don't. Sending nude photos was considered sexual by its nature, regardless of the content of the photos themselves. You could get into all sorts of trouble for an unsolicited dick pic, and justifiably so given American culture. And here I was, posing nude with a standing stone in the background, for a photo I was going to casually send to my friends back in the States. Made it to the UK, here I am measuring my cock against a menhir as a joke, you can do that sort of thing here.

Well, if anyone still needed proof that I had in fact been hired for a job that required me to be nude, there it was. And there was the total commitment that Nigel spoke of. My face was clearly visible in a full body nude photo taken at a British national monument, and sent off before I could have second thoughts and delete the damn thing. No, it was out there, and the reactions were popping in already.

Thank God they were all positive, but then the list was very short and only folks I had a sexual relationship with already. Even when taking a risk, I was still hedging my bets.

Nigel left me alone with my thoughts as we left Stonehenge and drove the ten minutes further down the road to the Welcome Break.

We pulled in at what looked to my American perspective like a Stuckey's, a long one story building with a pitched tile roof, that wasn't blue, it was brown, but close enough. SIgns for the brands represented were familiar - Burger King, Starbucks, Subway, and Krispy Kreme for Pete's sake. The Phat Pasty Company and the WH Smith's were decidedly British, at least, and let me know I wasn't still in the States.

We pulled past a row of half a dozen caravans, most pulled by Range Rover-style SUVs, but one on the end sticking out partly due to the battered station wagon with the bicycles in a cartop carrier pulling it, and partly for the brilliantly hued flowers painted on the caravan proper like some kind of escapee from the 1960s.

"They have a free shower facility," Nigel said, as he hunted for an empty spot, "which is a useful thing when you're traveling in just your skin. Do bring a towel, though, as they get a bit peevish if you walk out of the shower into the shop still wet."

I was watching people coming and going. There weren't many, but half a dozen went in and another half dozen came out as Nigel found a spot to his liking and got the car parked.

"There was hardly anybody at Stonehenge," I commented.

"Well," said Nigel, a bit distracted, "time of day on a weekday."

"Point being," I said, "the only people we interacted with were the caretaker and the young woman at the ticket counter. This is a busy roadside establishment. We're doing the Gatwick walk again, except this time we're going to use the facilities like anybody else would, and pretend that this is all normal. And for me, it's not normal. Not at all. So pardon me if I'm a little anxious about walking nude into a busy public place."

Nigel gave me a nod, and exited the car. "Let's get it done with, then," he said.

Sigh. Deep breath. Open the door, step out. Feeling my balls pulling up tight and a wash of goosebumps across my skin. A couple of textiles exiting paused, staring at Nigel for a moment, before moving on, shaking their heads and talking with each other.

I fell into step with Nigel and we walked up the sidewalk, pavement I reminded myself, you're in Britain now, and into the Welcome Break.

Typical of such places, the bathrooms were prominently placed to either side of the entrance, with large, clear signage. We headed off into the gents', and up to the urinal.

There was only one, but made to accomodate several men at once. A long slab of polished stone rose halfway up the wall behind a drainage trough with a brick retaining curb. Water sheeted down the wall. Nigel stepped up to the trough, toes against the two-brick-high retaining wall, and let fly, no hands. I did likewise, for the first time in several years not knowing what to do with my hands, and let them just dangle, focusing on hips and knees for aim. Not that aim was really required when you had an entire wall to piss against.

Another man, a fully dressed one, came in, and stopped as he rounded the corner of the entryway, faced with two nude men at the urinal. Although it wasn't our faces he was presented with.

"I suppose you're both card carrying," he grumbled, trying not to stare at our naked asses.

"I am," Nigel said cheerfully. "Ian's only just got into Britain two hours ago and hasn't had time yet."

"Into?" He squinted at me suspiciously. "Where from?"

"The States," I said. "I'm here on a work visa, but I intend to immigrate."

"Dear Lord," the man said, glancing down, then up, with an almost prayerful shake of his head. "We're importing you lot now." With a sigh, he stepped up next to Nigel, unzipped, rolled out a short, fat cock, and let fly.

I shrugged, shook off with a bounce of my hips, stepped over to the sink to wash up. "I found your laws more rational than those back in the USA," I told him.

He gave me a sidelong look from under a furrowed brow. "Given the state of the States these days, that's a low bar."

I shrugged. "True, can't deny it. Got out when I had the chance."

"Well, welcome to Britain then," he said, zipped up, and replaced me at the sink.

"Sorry for any shock," said Nigel, taking the next sink.

"No," said the man, waving it off and slinging a bit of water as he stepped over to the hot air dryer, "apology on my side. It's been over a year since the Naked Revolution. We've got naturists sitting in Parliament. You're just still not that prevalent that I've gotten used to it. Haven't met that many of you in person."

"We're working on that," said Nigel, and then the man dipped his hands into the dryer and the roar made further conversation impossible. We left before he was done.

We took a moment to browse the snackage aisles, mostly so I could spot a few familiar brands, and feel a bit more anchored, I think. Nigel was taking his sheepdog role very seriously, and trying his best to address my anxiety.

"Ooer," said a female voice in a broad Devonshire accent. "Well, aren't ye a lovely couple."

We glanced round to find two nude women rounding the end of the aisle, both a bit short and wide, obviously past their forties and a bit saggy in the expected places, but holding up reasonably well. The one who'd spoken had a stock housewife haircut but dyed shocking pink. The other had the side of her head shaved, and the rest done in alternating blue and green braids, and had a a tattoo on her left hip, of a fancy roll on a plate, decorated with the words HOT CROSS MILF spelled out in blackcurrants. Both had somewhat unruly pubic hair and unshaven armpits.

"We're not a couple," Nigel quickly assured her. "I'm an intern with Hammersmith and Farrell, and this is our new data librarian."

"Oo, you're wi' Hammersmith!" the other woman said, "an' doesn't that sound important then. So ye're on yer way doon to Trewinney then? So excitin to meet someone who's part o' that, idden it." She traded glances with her partner.

The partner sighed, and gave her attention to us. "I'm Agatha Bennett," she said, "an' this be ma dummon Caroline, who gets excited an forgets her manners." She gave Caroline a mildly reproving look, and got kissed on the nose for it.

"Ian McCormick," I said, "and this is Nigel Sinclair."

"Ye're from America?" Caroline asked, noting my accent. "Wi' a name like that, ye're not from Scotland really? What be yer middle name?"

"James."

They traded knowing looks.

We were all getting a few looks from passers-by at that point, four nude adults standing around in a convenience mart aisle, but the most anyone had said thus far was "excuse me" when they needed to get past us. The sheer normality of talking with fellow naturists was helping my anxiety. I wasn't the only one naked.

"So you're married?" Nigel asked. "How'd you meet?"

"Oh, th' usual story," Agatha said. "We met at a naturist event, an when the first date went well, we moved in together. Got ourselves married soon as it became legal."

"We were odd ducks all along," Caroline continued, "an' when the PN cert come long, we talked it over, an' we said, why shouldn't we? "

"How's it been?" I asked, interested to get a bit more input than just Nigel's.

"Oh, wouldn't go back for th' world." Agatha waved off the possibility. "There's something just so freein' about gettin it all out in the open. I mean, we didn't really give much of a toss about what th' general populace might of thought about us to begin with, and it's set a few of the right people on their ear."

Caroline laughed. "Two naked lesbians walk in, an' we're frumpy Devonshire housewives. It's just such a laugh when y'can break th' stereotype."

"Don't think I would use the word frumpy," Nigel said, pointedly staring at Caroline's hair.

"But we do be Devonshire housewives," she rejoined. "We've got a lovely little cottage, got flowerbeds all round. I'm a librarian. Ma dummon be the county extension agent, which is a fancy title for home economics teacher. Th' library an' th' town adjusted pretty quick to havin' us in th' altogether, but then it's a small town an' pretty much everyone knew us already, an' they just shrugged and said, well, th' odd ducks are at it again."

"We were just on to get a bite," Nigel said, waving a hand at the food court, visible past the market shelving. "Care to join us?"

Agatha shook her head. "Thanks, luv, but we're still fine from breakfast, not ready for nuncheon just yet."

"Lovely meetin' you though," Caroline said, and we made our goodbyes.

We ended up getting lunch from the Chopstix Noodle Bar, which was your basic fast-food Chinese, reasonably tasty, and in large portions for the price. The young woman at the register did a double take when we walked up. She started to say something, then decided it wasn't her job and resolutely turned her attention to the empty space in front of her counter where the next customer would stand. Sadly, we then occupied that space. I looked her straight in the eye when I ordered, not that she was meeting my gaze. It was rather nice not to be the one flustered for once.

"Washing powder," i said, once we'd got our orders and sat down.

"Pardon?" Nigel seemed a bit confused at the non sequitur, not having been party to the thought chain in my head.

"We're going to need a television commercial for the washing powder," I explained. Nigel made a go-on gesture with his chopsticks when I paused.

"There's been European commercials with nudity before," I went on, "but there, the nudity was used to attract attention, and it's always with young, attractive people."

"Well, yes," Nigel agreed. "Sex sells, and while we're not as obsessed with youth as you Americans are, it's to be expected."

"So we do a commercial." I held up my hands, framing the picture. "Linens aisle, nude woman in, say, her late thirties perusing the stock. Second woman, same age, walks up, says, new sitting towels again? First woman says, well, you know how they get. Second says, that's why I use the Hammersmith product."

Nigel nodded, making an agreeable face. "Could work, could work," he said, and dug back into his lo mein.

I jotted the idea down when we got back to the car. Not my department, but Marketing might be amenable to an outside contribution.

And we drove on.