Bloke in front of me driving a tractor. A big Deere, at least big by UK standards. No implement or trailer, nothing on the foreloader so at least he's not too slow. I'd judge he's a Rustic Son of the Soil in training. Probably a bit younger than me, green overalls and the uniform tweed cap of the British farmer.
All that outdoor life, I bet he's fairly well-endowed, if you see what I mean.
I'm driving to the supermarket on a weekend morning. There's an impatient horsey woman in a Discovery behind me. Middle-aged, hair like Princess Anne, white blouse and one of those green puffy waistcoats. Can't see her crotch of course from where I'm sitting, but I'm guessing she's wearing jodhpurs and Hunter wellies to complete the ensemble.
We reach the village. My turning. I speed off down the side road, leaving Horsey Woman cursing at Tractor Man. It's a wet day today in Southern England, so great plumes of spray are being thrown up as the Rollerskate passes through the puddles. Rather fun as it happens.
A cyclist in brightly coloured Lycra hoves into view. I slow right down to avoid splashing him. Not much left to the imagination in that outfit, you can hardly see his package at all. Must be the cold I suppose.
The supermarket car park has plenty of spaces, which is good. Sports Car Lady, a regular at this store, is just pulling in at the same time as me. Unusual to see a natal woman owning a succession of very track-oriented sports cars over the years, I am in awe of her. And naturally, of her vagina too.
The usual spotty youths are wheeling a great snaking line of trolleys past the cars. All wrapped up against the wet. Probably up and down like the Assyrian Empire like most teens, but they have that teen weediness about them that implies they have a little more growth to go in the trouser department.
I collect my trolley and go inside to start picking up my groceries. I need to find some oysters, for one thing.
And so I traverse the store, row by row. The other shoppers, each little more than a set of genitalia on legs when you come down to it, all doing the same. The checkout lady is friendly, can you blame me as a gynephile for thinking about her private parts a little longer than normal?
As I walk out of the store I pass a tall slim young woman coming in. I'm pretty sure she's trans, like me. We smile at each other. She has lovely hair, lucky thing.
I load my shopping into the Rollerskate, and drive home.