There has been a complete lack of tits in my garden for the last week and it was starting to play on my mind. No cheeky little Blue Tits, no white-cheeked and black-capped Great Tits, and the pair of Long Tailed Tits who made occasional forays into the branches of the many well-lopped tree branches were conspicuous by their absence.

Personally, I was blaming the army of House Sparrows which had taken up residence in the large bush adjacent to the garage for taking control of my bird feeders and forcing all the other birds elsewhere. Besides, after too many days trapped indoors enjoying the Christmas celebrations, I was beginning to feel a little bit musty and everybody was starting to get on my fucking nerves.

A short walk, a brief perambulation, a chance to blow some of the cobwebs from my overfed flesh and TV-saturated mind. There was still 40 minutes until nightfall and the weather had held mild and dry, so a quick jaunt down across the railway line and along the riverbank would be quite restorative, and I could check to see if the tits had relocated themselves to the untended undergrowth that lined the river.

It was nice to be outside; to feel wisps of air on my face, to stretch my legs, to peer into the semi-light, tinsel-bedecked, rooms of my neighbours as I skittered by my heels tipping and tapping across tarmacadam and then metal as I mounted the railway footbridge heading for the meadow beyond.

"Good afternoon."

I'm nothing if not polite and in small towns you do tend to greet those you pass, even those staring off a bit forlornly down railway tracks and into the fading light. And he did look a bit sad and beaten down in his 'seen better days' mackintosh and, filled with the milk of human kindness, I hoved to next to him atop the footbridge and inquired as to his general wellbeing.

"I'm just waiting for the 15.52 to Rochester."

"Not to jump I hope."

I put a gentle mocking lightness into my voice to assure him that I wasn't serious, though in truth I was a tad concerned, but whatever my intentions he took me at my word and bristled in umbrage.

"I, young lady, am hoping to catch my first glimpse of the new Sprinter S7DBV Class locomotive of which there are only currently five in operation throughout the entire rail network, and I have it from a very reliable source that one has been assigned to this line and that there is a very strong possibility that it might be the engine pulling today's 15.52 to Rochester. The Sprinter S7DBV is.... "

Now, dear reader, you may have noted that I've put the above words in quotation marks indicating that they are a direct quotes. But, truth be known, after he uttered the words 'young lady' I was simultaneously squirming in delight at such a descriptor and wondering whether the light had really got so bad that the rather obvious signs of my passing years were smoothed clear under dusk's flattering hues. The rest of it was stuff about trains. Mostly it was gobbledegook and I think I've done you a favour with my inattentiveness to the actual words and with the brevity of my recollection because, believe me, he went on and on talking in an ever-tightening spiral of acronyms and numbers until he'd wound himself up into such a peak of excitement that I thought he might explode.

Well, by this time I felt that my kindness had been fully milked and was possibly in danger of going sour so I wished him a pleasant evening, swivelled on my slightly sensible but still stunningly sexy block heels, and continued wiggling my way across the footbridge in search of the elusive tits.

"Miss."

His voice broke across my departing back and with a barely suppressed sigh I turned once more to see how I could be of further assistance.

Now let me be clear, my Christmas cheer and seasonal 'goodwill to all men' was pretty much used up by this point, so I was less than delighted upon turning to discover him holding his 'seen better days' macintosh wide, his soiled and grubby trousers pooled about his feet, and his perfectly respectable and quite enticing cock proudly erect and glaring at me with its one good eye from beneath his shirt tails.

To be honest, I'm not really proud of what happened next. I ought to have been aghast. I ought to have shrieked in fright and outrage at such a brazen assault. I ought to have covered tear-streaked eyes and fled the scene in a frenzy of clopping heels and fluttering dress hems. Ought.

Unfortunately, it had been an exceedingly dreary Christmas and this was by far the most exciting thing to have happened; with the possible exception of when I lit the brandy on the Christmas Pudding and almost set fire to the table decorations. So, instead of fleeing like any sensible, well-adjusted, clear-headed lady of indeterminate years would, I stepped forward for a closer inspection and said:

"Ohhhh, how yummy."

Which was definitely not the right thing to say, because no sooner had the words left my lips than his perfectly respectable erection started to wilt like five-day-old flowers.

"S7DBV."

"Rachet transitional FQR42."

"Piston tracked SLQ33 with side thrusting counterweaves."

I had absolutely no idea what I was jabbering on about. It was all fuckwit flibberdygibbets as far as I was concerned, but as soon as I mentioned the ever sexy S7DBV he perked right up and grabbed hold of his rather beguiling cock like a man who meant serious business.

"Rotating 58T36"

Thumb and forefinger forming an O, sliding along his rejuvenated length, hand moving at the wrist, released mackintosh flapping in the gentle breeze.

"Dolly idling 56TRs with corkscrew rivets."

And he was corkscrewing, giving that throbbing meat a real good massage, veins resplendent along his twitching member, hand squeezing, and stroking and pummelling in a frenzy of self-abuse. It was all very gratifying and just a little bit pussy dampening.

"Tributary F-Lock 369U"

The words escaped my lips in soft plaintive pants, the heat and ache between my squirming thighs contracting my diaphragm. The thought of his cum splashing forth in a graceful, creamy arc as his cock spluttered and spasmed in glorious tribute causing my cunt to throb expectantly.

"Flying Scotsman. Mallard. Intercity 125."

Shirt tails flapping. Face burning and puffing with exertion as the pressure building beneath his stroking hand started to edge its way along the straining length of his mighty member. A phallus now utterly resplendent, grown to its full majesty, blood-engorged, helmet coated in precum and shimmering in the dying light as the veins stood proud along the entire length of his pulsating shaft.

What a joy. What a delight to behold. I may even have licked my lips in anticipation as my tongue wrapped itself around my final offering.

"Shinkansen."

What a glorious deluge. A fountain of creamy delight spurting forth in pulse after pulse of manhandled pleasure, his own personal bullet trains shooting from the confinement of his penile tunnel to frolic free in the air in a truly impressive parabola of pearlescent, spunky yumminess before splattering like spent shell casings onto the railway footbridge before my feet.

Probably the best Christmas present I'd received that year.

Without further ado, and certainly not wanting to interrupt the potential joy of the 15.52 to Rochester, I wished my newly acquired, if slightly breathless admirer, a pleasant evening and with a delighted skip in my step continued on my evening perambulation.

Which, if I'm honest, was a complete disappointment. Not a tit anywhere. Not Coal nor Marsh nor Crested. Not Penduline nor Willow nor Bearded.

None.

So it seems there are to be no tits in this story. None whatsoever. Which I'm sure will come as a disappointment to one and all.