Rosie Dixon - Confessions of a Personal Secretary

The Confessions series of novels were written in the 1970s and some of the content may not be as politically correct as we might expect of material written today. We have, however, published these ebook editions without any changes to preserve the integrity of the original books. These are word for word how they first appeared.

CONTENTS

Title Page CONFESSIONS OF A PERSONAL SECRETARY ROSIE DIXON

Publisher’s Note Publisher’s Note Publisher’s Note How did it all start? Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 About the Author Also by Rosie Dixon Copyright About the Publisher The Confessions series of novels were written in the 1970s and some of the content may not be as politically correct as we might expect of material written today. We have, however, published these ebook editions without any changes to preserve the integrity of the original books. These are word for word how they first appeared.

How did it all start?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

About the Author

Also by Rosie Dixon

Copyright

About the Publisher

When I was young and in want of cash, (all the time) I used to trudge round to the local labour exchange during school and university breaks and sign on for any job that was going – mason’s mate, loader for Speedy Prompt Delivery, part time postman etc, etc.

During our tea and fag breaks (‘have a go and have a blow’ was the motto) my fellow workers would regale me with stories of the Second World War, ‘Very clean people, the Germans’, or throwing Irishmen through pub windows (the latter apparently crossed the Irish sea in hard times and were prepared to work for less than the locals). This was interesting, but what really stuck in my mind were the recurring stories of the mate or brother-in-law – it rarely seemed to be the speaker – who had been seduced, to put it genteelly, whilst on the job by (it always seemed to be) ‘a posh bird’: “Ew. Would you care for a cup of tea?” ‘And he was up her like a rat up a drainpipe’. Even one of the – to my eyes – singularly uncharismatic SPD drivers had apparently been invited to indulge in carnal capers after a glass of lemonade one hot summer afternoon in the Guildford area.

Of course, this could all have been make believe or urban myth but, but I couldn’t help thinking – with all this repetition – surely there must be something there?

It seemed unrealistic and undemocratic that Timmy’s naïve charms should only appeal to upper class women so I quickly widened his demographic and put him in situations where any attractive member of the fair sex might come across him or, of course, vice versa.

The books were always fun to write and never more so than when involving Timmy’s family: Mum, Dad – prone to nicking weird objects from the lost property office where he worked – sister Rosie and, perhaps most important of all, conniving, would be entrepreneur, brother in law Sidney Noggett, Timmy’s eminence greasy , a disciple of Thatcherism before it had been invented.

One day I woke up and had a brilliant idea. Why not a female Timothy Lea? And so was born Rosie Dixon, perhaps a gentler, more romantic flower than Timmy; always bending over backwards to do the right thing and preserve herself – mentally of course, that was very important – for Mr Right, but finding that things kept getting on top of her. In retrospect I regret that I did not end the series with Rosie and Timmy clashing in a sensual Gotterdammerung, possibly culminating in wedlock. Curled up before the glowing embers they would have had much to tell each other – or perhaps not tell each other.

Anyway, regardless of Timmy’s antecedents and Rosie’s moral scruples it is clear that an awful lot of people – or, perhaps, a lot of awful people – have shared my interest in the couple’s exploits and I would like to say a sincere ‘thank you’ to each and every one of them.

Christopher Wood a.k.a. Timothy Lea/Rosie Dixon

There is no doubt that it was the rupture – temporary I hope – of my romance with Geoffrey Wilkes that made me think seriously of getting some shorthand speeds behind me. A romantic rebuff is always good for the career-orientated side of my nature. If I am unhappy in love then I am determined to plunge into some new venture to take my mind off it.

It was unfortunate that Geoffrey and his Mummy and Daddy – that is what he calls them – should come upon me when I was teaching seven would-be rapists a lesson but these things do happen. (In Confessions of a Baby Sitter . Ed.) What I was less prepared for was their uncharitable attitude to the whole affair. To imagine that I was taking some kind of sexual initiative is completely to misunderstand my motives. Still, it is no good crying over spilt milk – there were quite enough tears that evening as I recall it. I think that Mrs Wilkes was in a bad mood because my mum and dad had refused to canvass for the Conservative Party and she was just looking for something to criticize. That is why me exposing my love grotto to Slasher and his gang played right into her hands. What a pity that Geoffrey is so completely under his mother’s thumb. I did expect more from him than a series of goldfish pouts leading up to a strangled sob. When Slasher and his horrible horde ran past him and escaped into the night he made no more effort than his father to stop them. Mr Wilkes just stood there staring at my exposed breasts until Mrs Wilkes hit him over the head with her umbrella.

Anyway, as I have already said, it is no good dwelling in the past. Mrs Wilkes put the phone down on me when I rang up to ask if Geoffrey was feeling better and if that is her attitude then I will rest on my dignity until the man himself has the grace to get in touch with me.

I am still smarting as I take my place at the breakfast table after the abortive telephone call. ‘I hear you were out on the job again last night,’ says Dad coldly.

Natalie, my precocious younger sister, sniggers. Something about Dad’s choice of words appeals to her infantile sense of humour. Neither of my parents approve of the Nightguard Babysitting Service which my friend Penny and I started in a fit of temporary insanity. Regular readers – God bless you! – know a number of reasons why.

‘It was the last time, Dad,’ I say. ‘I’m going to get in touch with Penny and wind the whole thing up.’

‘I think she’ll be relieved,’ says Mum. ‘I know she shared our concern. Such a nice girl.’

‘And so well spoken, too,’ says Dad. ‘You could take a leaf out of her book, Rose.’

I shudder to think what I would find on it, I think to myself. When Mum and Dad talk like that about Penny it makes my blood boil. She is my best friend but in the morals department she makes the late, great President Kennedy seem like a less frivolous version of Pope Paul. How my parents could believe that my virtually non-existent sexual experience is enough to contaminate anybody is beyond me. I suppose it is a case of your family always being the first to suspect the worst of you. If they saw a boa constrictor swallowing me they would worry in case I was giving it food poisoning.