After my last post I had an e-mail from Concerned of Crawley;
“Dear Emily, please don’t have an affair”.
Oh my goodness, I have one titillating encounter in the supermarket and you’ve got me romping around the tinned peaches in an extra-marital liaison. Even if I felt lacking in that department at home (and remember, this is the girl whose kitchen is used for far more than mere muffin-making) do you seriously think I’d have the time to have an affair? More pertinently, do you seriously think I could be arsed? It would involve far too much sexual gymnastics and leg wax.
Where on earth do these people manage it, anyway? Even if I hired a cleaner to threaten the tidal wave of multi-coloured plastic crap back into the playroom, I still couldn’t lure a lover back to mine; what with the nanny, the husband, the three kids, it’s like Picadilly Circus round at ours. I’d need some sort of sex rota.
The idea of checking into a hotel for an hour is frankly just seedy and I’m simply not the type to do it in cars. Anyway, by the time I’ve unstrapped all three car seats and unstuck sufficient raisins to free the back seat for passion I suspect the moment may have passed.
I’d have to be really, grossly drunk, too. Drunk enough not to remember that my erst-while slender self now resembles an elephant seal, and that my bosoms have shrunk so much I could pass for a twelve year old were it not for the grooves etched round my eyes. Drunk enough not to worry my new lover may get lost in my cavernous wizard-sleeve vagina, and that I might inadvertently wee on him when I come.
As hobbies go, it’s just too much like hard work. I think I’ll take up yoga instead.