Peppermint Creams

I have the place to myself. D’s playing poker in Willesden Green so I’ve unplugged the phone, put on my fluffy slippers and I’m eating Waitrose olives and marinated artichokes for supper. And as if that’s not exciting enough, when I’ve done that I’m going to wax my armpits and bleach my moustache. Are you unbearably aroused yet?

Last night’s telly crisis passed without major incident. Three things I wrote got used, one bit I expected to be cut was cut. And a throwaway idea I wasn’t really paid for got expanded into something else. So television is my friend again and I’m going to celebrate by watching the second part of Red Riding so I can lust over David Morrissey.

I’m thinking of starting an occasional series here called Don’t Try This At Home. Number one in the series would be ‘anything intimate with a bag of peppermint creams’. I’m inordinately fond of peppermint creams and D laid a trail of them across the landing last night to lure me away from my computer. And that was fine. But it’s what he did next with them that was the problem.

So unless your erotic landscape fully encompasses searching around in some bewilderment with your index finger; stripping the bed and putting the sheets in the washing machine; and lengthy and intimate work with the shower nozzle, then just say no to peppermint cream sex games kids, just say no.