Songs to Throttle a Cat to

While driving in my horribly unsexy wagon with three children in the back, I happened to listen to the words of the song they were playing on the radio. It's called "Promiscuous Girl". They should just call the song "Let's Fuck". It would be subtler. The verses could go "I want to fuck you. You want to fuck me". Then the chorus could snap in with the incredibly complex "Let's Fuck".

Oh God. When did I get so old?

On matters sexual;

While R and I were discussing how hairy R's bumhole is (he is a descendant of Romany gypsies after all), he proclaimed, "I am ideally placed to use a bidet". We were both delighted at the prospect. Hairy bumholes are notorious collectors of little twirled up pieces of toilet paper. The lovely shoots of water on a bidet are the antidotes. If anyone knows of a charity who donates bidets to the hairy of bum, drop me a line. R also collects lots of little creatures in his belly button lint. Which spurred him on to the idea of creating a gourmet chocolate, churned entirely in the belly buttons of young hirsute men. Belly Lindt Chocolate.

This is the calibre of discussion two severely sleep deprived people engage in.

R and I were randomly discussing whether either of us had ever been caught masturbating by our parents as teenagers. I had to admit that my father once walked in while I was mid tonk. I was wearing a sundress, kneeling on all fours trying out a new position. (Young creative minds must be put to use, you know). ‘Twas as I found the right angle for much self pleasuring that my dear Pappa walked in, gasped “Oh God” and walked out again, shouting ‘sorry’ all the way down the stairs. Soon after this I immigrated. From now on, when people ask if it was the crime that drove me out of South Africa, I will have to admit that it was not. It was the thought of my father seeing my arse in the air as I brought myself to orgasm that did it.