Yesterday the Husband and I seized the moment and had sex in the kitchen. This is not the first time it has happened there; it’s not that there’s anything particularly erotic about our kitchen, simply that we tend to be in there at the same time, which is a rarity nowadays.
Half-way through (not that I knew it was half-way through at the time; it could have been barely past the opening act. It’s always tricky to tell) I absent mindedly reached out to stir the risotto.
“What are you doing?”
“Stirring the risotto – it was starting to stick”
“It’s not very passionate, is it?
I put down my wooden spoon and gave a few gasps of enjoyment.
“Now you’re just being silly”
“Well, what do you want me to do, then?”
“There has to be a middle ground, surely? I mean, somewhere between the Meg Ryan impression and the Jamie Oliver?”
“Now you’re talking…”
I moaned a little, and licked chicken stock from my index finger. It didn’t really work for either of us.