Mme Roux having given her bomb a face looked upset that it had taken the most of the blushing passion to do it. The bomb was leaving Mme Roux for another and it would only do so looking its best. She had had me at it for a week now with the marigolds and Vim.
No amount of lipstick truly made the bomb look any better. Where it did not fill the flatbed of the Bedford QL an excited Mme Roux had packed it out with sofa-foam and four dozen mildewed and well wetted towels. It was indisputably a bomb. Big and barrel-round with fins and a nose cone, a child drawing a bomb would draw this one. She signed it with the last of the lipstick. It was Mme Roux’s bomb and famously the last of its kind, a shame then if rumour was right that soon she would lose it.
If only the great nations had waited before having their inevitable war they might have made a better fist of it. The big loads had run out before the V Bombers had made it home to their mostly destroyed airstrips, the job only half done at best leaving this the last and (even before those noisy days) one of the oldest. Mme Roux called it Bon Bon and hummed the Blue Danube as she worried at what rust remained along the most visible of the welds. Bon Bon was leaving Mme Roux for an older man and if now old enough to marry then years in bombs were shared with dogs and both at sixteen were prone to leaks. Mme Roux had five years on Bon Bon. Widowed for three and despite the name the only thing French about her were the knickers.
It was a fine bright day to be sprucing up a bomb and soon there would be tea.