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Peek through the net curtains of Britain's bog-standard semis, where your everyday eye-candy missus—soft around the edges like a suet pud, with veins like a London Underground and knockers that've fed the five thousand—turns the front room into a flirty flesh fest. These cheeky charvers, daydreaming of the other half or the man from the Pru with his policy pole, hitch up the housecoat to hawk their homely honeypots: "Alright, love—or you with the toolkit—have a butcher's at me bits before the meter man clocks in!"
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