After two months of meals from tins in a squalid little room without a girl in sight, I was fed up. Then I noticed my neighbour. Mrs Simpson (as I later found to be her name) was a lady in her forties, plump, but still attractive. Attractive? By now, I would have found the Wicked Witch of the West attractive, so frustrated was I! We occasionally met on the stairs, and exchanged polite greetings, but otherwise had no contact.

The flat was in a large Victorian house which had been converted into as many bed-sitting rooms as could be crammed into it by a greedy landlord. My room, for instance, was half of a room originally beautifully proportioned, but now spoilt by a hardboard partition cutting it in two. One day it occurred to me - hardboard - very thin, very easy to drill through! I waited until I heard Mrs Simpson go out, and then got busy. I drilled two holes, small but close together, high up the partition, where, hopefully, they would not be noticed. A quick re-arrangement of the furniture in my room gave me something to stand on, and - I could see the whole of her room.

I quickly prepared myself a meal, and did the work I needed to do for the next day, listening all the while for her return. It was quite late when I heard her door, and I climbed quickly up to my spy holes. She looked so tired and vulnerable as she removed her coat, that I almost gave up there and then. However, curiosity got the better of me, and I continued to watch. She put on the kettle, and left the room. I heard the bathroom door close, and after a few minutes, the sound of the toilet flushing. She reappeared, and, as the kettle was boiling, made a cup of tea. It looked as though she was going to sit down to drink it, but then she changed her mind. I heard her speak - to herself -

"Let's get comfortable, first."

With her back to me, standing by the bed, she casually removed her clothes, and put on a robe which lay ready on the bed. All I saw was a white back and a very shapely bottom, but it was enough to excite me. I continued to watch, but when she went to bed, she turned off the light before removing the robe, and so I saw nothing. I retired to bed, disappointed, but expectant.

I remained disappointed. This was the pattern I saw every time I spied on her. She was always facing away from me, so I only saw that arse, which became more and more desirable as the days passed. Or she undressed after turning out the light, and this was worse. Once, in sheer frustration, I sighed deeply while watching, and she turned, clad only in bra and panties, and looked hard at the wall behind which I stood. I was very careful after that. And then came the breakthrough I needed.

It was a Sunday - late Sunday morning, I remember. I had been for a walk to clear my head - I had been to a great party the night before. I was returning, reading the headlines on the newspaper I had bought as I walked, when I saw Mrs Simpson approaching from the other direction. She was very smartly dressed - in her Sunday best, as the saying goes. We met at the door of the house.

"Good morning. Lovely day," I said.

"Good morning. It certainly is. You look as though you were up bright and early this morning. Have you been to church?" she replied.

"'Fraid not. Have you?"

We were climbing the stairs together by now, and had arrived on the landing outside our doors.

"Yes. I try to go every Sunday."

I opened the door to my room......(cont)