Fly, You Bugger. Fly!

Last night we had a quiet evening at home, Heather and I, just catching up on some paperwork; an early night in prospect. Even as she worked at the computer in the office she had shed her top and was sitting there in her bra, ostensibly feeling too hot. I stood behind her, caressing her shoulders and nuzzling her neck; a promise of more to come later. What could possibly spoil the moment?

Then, just as we were going up to bed, Son, who infests the little granny annexe across our courtyard and who normally only emerges when he needs pizza, decided to take up residence in the bathroom. We have two bathrooms and he has one of his own, though it is rather squalid. He had of course chosen the one right next to our bedroom and it was obvious he was in there for the long-haul (so to speak). We wearily climbed into bed, all thoughts of naughtiness dispelled, and were all too soon asleep.

On the bright side: we are meeting him in town this evening, together with his gf and her parents, to look at a flat (am. Apartment) close to the college where he studies, just down the road from a chinese takeaway and only a stones’ throw from people throwing stones. It is apparently recently renovated with a new kitchen and the rent is reasonable, but I don’t care if it is a mud hut in the middle of a swamp and the rent extortionate. We’ll take it…just as long as he moves out!!!!! (We love him really!)

We won’t be the only ones in town tonight, apparently. There will also be a horde of Manchester United fans, come to watch our local team get thrashed by them in the UEFA cup…see it live on ITV1!

I think we’ll avoid the city centre bars tonight, just for once.

Atomic Pussy?

I’ve just been back to the hospital to hear the results of all the tests and biopsies I have had taken of late: I should have been in last Wednesday but the results were delayed due to them having to apply more and more exotic tests to the samples they took from me to try and find out what was wrong. The consultant apologised for the extra few days of waiting in suspense but said straight away that the news was good. He told me that in cases like mine he always works on the assumption that something is amiss until it can be proved otherwise, which is reassuring, but that all the tests have come back negative. Big sigh of relief. I have to go back for an ultrasound scan in two months time just to be extra sure but apart from that I feel I have got my life back.

One of the tests I had done was the PET/CT scan, which is a very advanced technique, not available everywhere I understand, so I was lucky to be able to get one done so quickly. The idea is that you drink a solution of glucose-like substance which is labelled with a radioisotope. A growing tumour, with its rapid uncontrolled cell division uses a lot more energy, in the form of glucose, than the surrounding normal tissue and so, after a while, there will be a concentration of the isotope in the tumour. The PET part of the scan detects these ‘Hot Spots’ and the CT scan allows them to be superimposed on a picture of the internal organs so that it is possible to see the exact location of any problems. Isn’t technology wonderful?

So I had to lie quietly for an hour or so, slowly imbibing my radioactive cocktail. Just before the scan I was injected with a contrast dye with the warning “You will get a metallic taste in your mouth and you may get a warm feeling running down your legs, as if you have wet yourself”. They were just trying to be polite: The hot sensation was there all right, it was just an inch or so further back. To be fair though, it wouldn’t sound quite so reassuring to be told “It may feel like you’ve crapped yourself and it’s all running down the backs of your legs” however nearer the truth that might be.

I was told that the scan itself would not be in the least uncomfortable. Wrong. Having spent the previous hour or so relaxing on a bed with no problems at all, within 20 seconds of being fed into the machine I got an itch on the side of my neck which just wouldn’t go away. Obviously I couldn’t scratch it, I wouldn’t even wriggle around at all. The next 20 minutes was sheer murder as I gritted my teeth and struggled to ignore it. It was a blessed relief to be allowed up from the table and to be able to scratch the bloody thing.

The nurse removed the IV from my arm, taped a chunk of cotton wool over it and told me I could get dressed again. I was just doing up my trousers when I glanced down and saw that the one sleeve of the t-shirt was bright crimson. It took me a couple of seconds to realise that it was drenched in my blood and becoming more so. The nurse re-did the dressing and went to get a shirt I could loan. I wasn’t too worried as I could put a coat on over it, but I suppose it doesn’t do anything for the hospitals' reputation to have patients wandering around the public areas in blood-soaked clothes. What she came back with was a flannelette button-up shirt with the name of the hospital printed on it which she insisted I put on instead. Any thoughts of grabbing lunch at Burger King in town before going home were therefore dismissed. I didn’t want to appear in public looking like an escapee from the looney bin.

I was booked for my operation the next day, with an early start, so it was early to bed that night. I was ready to have sex but for some reason Heather wasn’t too keen. I can’t understand why; what girl wouldn’t jump at the chance of being filled up with my radioactive spunk?

If You Go Down To The Woods Today...

…You’re sure of a big surprise. (The totally-bare picnic)

Yesterday was a perfect day, warm, with clear blue skies and no wind, just as promised. We decided we were going to take advantage of what might be the last of the fine weather with a good long hike up in the forest, and a picnic somewhere on the way. So we packed a rucksack with all the essentials: Bottle of wine, corkscrew, cups, snacks, apples and of course a large rug.

The forest is a very hilly area: Geologically speaking it is a terminal moraine, a huge heap of debris left behind by a retreating glacier during the last ice-age, with deep valleys, ridges and rounded hilltops. It is managed, with areas of new plantations and cleared areas alongside mature trees, so there is always some activity somewhere in the forest and it is criss-crossed with a network of good trails.

The first thing that strikes you is the silence. Several times we just stood still to take in the almost complete absence of sound, along with the sight of the sunlight shafting through the trees. Walking conditions were perfect: Warm in the sunlight and delightfully cool in the shade. After about an hour and a half of walking without having seen another soul we found the ideal spot for our picnic, a freshly cleared and re-planted hilltop, overlooking a secluded valley and further ridges of pines beyond, soaked in late-afternoon sunshine. We spread out the blanket on the springy grass at the edge of the plantation, opened the wine and sank back.

We sipped our wine and set the world to rights, slowly rolling closer to each other. Suddenly, Heather seat up:

“I’m getting hot” she announced, stripping off her t-shirt. I followed suit, then snuggled closer to her, resting my head on her breasts and unbuttoning her jeans at the same time. She lifted her hips and she let me slide her jeans and panties down.

Walking boots are a pain to get off, and even more of a pain to get on again, so we just pushed our jeans round our ankles and fucked with our boots on. First I finger-fucked her to orgasm and then pushed her legs up to enter her as best I could despite being effectively bound at the ankles. Heather, with her legs up in the air, thought I looked funny peeping at her over the pushed-down jeans that joined her ankles, so I turned her over and fucked her from behind instead. She had said she didn’t want soaked knickers to complete the rest of the walk in, so I obliged by turning her over once more and spraying over her breasts instead.

And then we just lay back in the sunshine, letting its warmth and the fresh air bathe our naked bodies. On previous occasions our outdoor exploits have mostly been ‘quickies’, done just for the naughtiness of it and executed as quickly as possible for fear of discovery. On this occasion, though, we could relax and enjoy our little bit of love in the afternoon, confident that there was nobody within miles.

Instead of being guiltily snatched, it just seemed the most natural thing in the world.



The scene of the crime

HNT: Lucky Heather

Lucky me, more like!

Holidays At Home

It’s been a little bit of a strange week so far. We’re at home, but still on ‘holiday’ as far as everyone else is concerned. Our staff are running the business in our absence quite capably so we stay out of sight, do odd jobs around the house, catch up with the paperwork and so on. We’re even talking about redecorating the bedroom. Quite what possessed my parents-in-law to have the walls painted a sludgy green-brown colour when they owned the place is beyond me, but we haven’t bothered to do anything with it until now and we have both decided that it is just too depressing.

We have also been enjoying some wonderful weather these last few days and, as we are lucky enough to have a large forest almost on our doorstep, we have been up there for several long walks recently. Not many people go to the forest, especially midweek, and there are many secluded little spots where one can be completely undisturbed…

I usually take my camera with me on outings like this and at one particular beauty spot Heather picked a couple of sprigs of, well, heather. The germ of a naughty idea began to form in my head. How would it be if I were to take a picture of this sprig of her trademark plant nestling between her generous breasts?

Heather is apt to be camera-shy at the best of times, so I didn’t know how she would take to the suggestion, but she was rather tickled by the idea and even agreed on it being published, so we found a sunny, secluded spot and she had pulled her pullover over her head by the time I had the camera set up.

The result you can see tomorrow as our first venture into Half Nekkid Thursday.

As for the pictures we took afterwards… Sorry, those are for our enjoyment only!

The Outcome

”Du taler Dansk”

I had snapped back into consciousness just seconds before and was trying to focus on the anæsthetist who had been patting insistently on my arm. I just couldn’t work out why she was talking to me in Danish. How did she know I could speak Danish?

“Du taler Dansk” I repeated. -You can speak Danish- and tried to follow up with something conversational like “That’s interesting. Whereabouts in Denmark do you come from?” but I just could not string together a coherent sentence from the jumble of words rattling round in my head. Now the green-clad theatre nurse chimed in. Also in Danish. This had me really baffled. Why was everybody around me talking in Danish? I repeated myself for a third time.

“I can speak German too” laughed the nurse. A laugh which echoed around inside my head as they wheeled me out into the recovery room.

As clarity slowly returned and I began to make sense of it all I realised with a groan that I had been talking gibberish but I suppose operating theatre staff get used to hearing gibberish, and not just from the patients. I remember that, during my training, I was observing, at close quarters, an operation on a very large woman and all the anæsthetist, a burly Irishman, would say throughout the procedure was “Och, she’d be good in the scrum. She’d be good in the scrum”.

It had been a long journey from the ward down to the theatre. In the more public areas I had lain, propped up on my elbows on the bed as I was wheeled along because I didn’t want to look like a patient. I was trying to act self-confident but inside I was terrified. As we travelled along endless anonymous basement corridors I gave up and sank back onto the bed. I was to have my tonsils removed, that much I knew, but what else would they find? What had yesterday’s scan revealed? I decided I didn’t want to know until I woke up.

In the end, that decision was taken out of my hands. The surgeon who was to operate on me, a woman of about my age, came up to me and asked if anyone had discussed the findings of my tests. I shook my head, hardly able to speak, preparing for the worst possible news.

“I have your scans here and they are absolutely clear, and while the first biopsy they took showed abnormal cells in that lump of yours, the second showed none at all. We’re going to leave your tonsils where they are, there’s nothing wrong with them, and we’re just going to take out the lump so we can have a good look at it”.

So it was with peace of mind, if not exactly elation, that I lay back and felt the oxygen mask press firmly against my face. My limbs grew heavy and the next thing I knew an hour was missing from my life.

So that’s the situation. I am home. I am well. I have just removed a sticking plaster the size of a football field from my neck. If anybody asks about what happened I can always tell them I was in a bar-fight and came out best. That should improve my street-cred.

Thank you to everybody who has sent prayers and positive thought our way, this has not been an easy time for Heather either. I would like to think that they have had an effect on the outcome but in any case it is amazingly reassuring to know that there are friends all over the world that have been standing by us. Such is the power of blogging.

You should have seen the other guy.

The Ten-Miles-Out Club

You’ll have heard of the ’Mile-High Club’. While sex at 5000-odd feet does have a naughty appeal I have yet to meet anyone who has actually tried it. Unless you’re wealthy enough to own or at least charter an aircraft for the purpose you’re reduced to a quick shag in the cramped confines of an airliners’ toilet. Thanks, but no thanks.

The Ten-Miles-Out-Club is similar but possibly less exclusive: Sex on a ship or boat on the high seas, in international waters, so the Isle of Wight ferry doesn’t count. Has anyone ever had sex on the Isle of Wight ferry, I wonder? Would anybody want to?

So there we were on board ship at Harwich, in a comfortable cabin, with a sea view, and 19 hours to fill. What to do? Well, to start with we went to the bar as England slipped out of sight, then we had a very good meal in the restaurant while watching the reflection of the full moon dancing on the ripples of an unusually calm North Sea.

And then we went down to our cabin.

We didn’t draw the curtains when we got back. It just seemed to add a bit of naughtiness to the occasion and if a gas-rig worker with a powerful pair of binoculars, or a passing halibut got a cheap thrill from watching us going at it then so be it. I had packed a goody bag in preparation for a rainy day or two in Wales and I had taken it up with us from the car. The significance of this was not lost on Heather. The contents had been supplemented, after a visit to Ann Summers, with new fishnet stockings (corny, I know, but oh so hot!) suspender belt, matching g-string and bra, plus a tiny frilly micro-skirt and a leather paddle; ‘a new slapper for my old slapper’ as I said, just before she slapped me.

I undressed and reclined on the bunk, watching her as she made herself ready for me. Heather naked is wonderful but to see her decking herself out in satin and lace in her favourite colours of red and black just for my enjoyment made me hard in an instant. When she had finished adorning herself she twirled around for my inspection and my approval was very obvious. She beckoned to me to join her, standing in the narrow space between the two bunks.

She looked fantastic. The new bra we had chosen together was just perfect, pushing her luscious breasts together and up until they overflowed out of the cups with her nipples peeking through the lace borders. It was a fitting replacement for one she had bought a year ago which had once had the same effect but which she now struggles to fill. If anyone knows of a diet where you can lose your tummy without it coming off the boobs as well, please let us know.

I rested my head on those wonderful soft breasts and ran my tongue up and down her cleavage, my hand resting on the slippery scrap of satin decorating her pubic mound and feeling the crunch of her springy hair beneath. She cupped my shaft in the palm of her hand and rubbed gently, while tickling my balls with her fingertips.

I slowly turned her around so that her back was to me and ran my hands all over her body. One forearm brushed across her breasts before sliding up and closing around her neck. She shuddered. She likes fingers, hands, arms, around her neck. She also likes the idea of being stretched, so as I caught her throat in the crook of my elbow I leaned back gently, forcing her onto tiptoes. She controlled the pressure and the amount of stretching herself by how much she raised herself up. She gave out deep little moans of pleasure as I held her and slid the other hand down over her flattened stomach and into her flimsy g-string.

I released her again. “Sit down” I commanded, pulling out a stool from under the little writing desk by the window. She sat, facing me, and I stood straddling the two bunk beds with my groin in her face. She wrapped her lips around my cock and took me slowly and deeply time after time. I pulled out again after a while and took it in my own hands. There are times when you just need to feel a good hard grip around your cock to maximise your pleasure. I started stroking it a few times. I could so easily have just come there and then; spurting my seed all over her neck for it to run down between her breasts. Heather could see what I was thinking and protested with a plaintive little “No, no” and I settled for kissing her full on the lips instead. Lips that were still charged with the taste of me.

I had her kneel up on the little stool instead. Facing away from me and spread out on the desk, looking out of the window. Standing behind her she was just at the ideal height for me to pull the g-string to one side and ease into her soaking wet cleft. I grabbed hold of her hair and she gasped as I pulled her head back and took my pleasure inside her. Again, I could have come there and then, but held back. I reached for the faithful Njoy, lubed it up and eased it into her arsehole as I carried on fucking her. After a while I slowly pulled it out again, bump by bump and put my cock up in her back passage instead, gently at first, but with growing intensity. Again I held back.

I told her to get onto the bunk. On her back, legs apart. No sooner had my hand threaded its way past the flimsy fabric of her g-string than she began to quiver and thrill. Her legs squeezed together and she plucked her nipples free and gave me a display of her playing with them, her face a picture of pure bliss as she bit her bottom lip, arched her back and came powerfully.

I stood back and took my cock in my hand once more. Once more I considered wanking myself hard until I sprayed all over her. But the lure of her juicy wet cunt is almost always too powerful to resist. Still wanking hard I slid closer and closer to her. I pulled the little red satin triangle to one side, revealing her soft, unruly, toffee-coloured pubic hair. Now the top of my clenched fist was burying itself between her soaking wet lips and at the last moment I plunged deep inside her and shot my load into her in the same instant.

I lay in the haven of her thighs, not wanting ever to leave again, propped up on my elbows and gazing down on her mild, loving, satisfied face. We have travelled many times by ferry across the North Sea, but lately always with the children. Heather will no doubt correct me if I’m wrong but I think it has been a good twenty years since we last qualified for membership of the ‘Ten-Miles-Out Club’.

Pubs And Prejeudice

I had been prepared for Sunday to have been a melancholy day. This was to be the last day of our abbreviated holiday, a holiday that had started so well despite the pouring rain. Little over a week previously we had laughed as we ran across the car park of the first pub we had come to after emerging from the Channel Tunnel and dripped off in the shelter of its low, half-timbered porch. We didn’t mind the soaking. We were on holiday and we didn’t have a care in the world.

I was quite prepared to be miserable about the fact that the grey clouds were finally beginning to roll away, revealing the English countryside in lush, freshly washed green. Or about the fact that we were having to miss our stay in North Wales and that we had been forced to miss a right drunken bash with the esteemed fellow-blogger Trixie on the Friday night. I had phoned the aforementioned blogger on the Saturday morning to see if we could get together that lunchtime instead and had obviously woken her after a heavy night. This was very tactless and I hope she will forgive me.

With the Channel Tunnel out of action following the fire and with the Seafrance ferries phone lines being jammed solid we counted ourselves lucky to be able to get a crossing from Harwich at 6pm on the Sunday. This is a journey we have made very many times before but, being diametrically the opposite side of London and knowing what a fickle thing the traffic on the M25 can be, we set out early, reckoning that if we really did get stuck there would still be a good chance of making the ferry on time and if it went smoothly we could find a pub somewhere in Essex and have a leisurely lunch.

I like Essex. I know it is the butt of ‘Essex Girl’ jokes and has the reputation of being the abode of East-End gangsters, wide-boys and the tasteless nouveau riche but I grew up on the Herts-Essex border and I feel at home here. My sister, a barrister and university tutor, was born just on the other side of that border and is proud to call herself an Essex Girl. I love the endless fields of barley, the church spires peeking unexpectedly from folds in the landscape and the huge open skies you find here. I love the villages with their quaint names: Ugley, Matching Tye, Braintree, Dunmow, Takeley and Furneaux Pelham.

We made good time and fetched up at ‘The Sun Inn’ at Feering which, for my money, is everything a perfect British pub should be. Old, with low oak beams, but with plenty of room. Well patronised by locals but with a warm welcome for strangers. A good selection of beer, well kept, and good food at reasonable prices. We sat in the lounge, half-listening to the chat around us and watching the kids playing out in the garden. All ages were represented there, all having a good time. Families dining together, friends meeting for a pint, travellers just passing through. An immense feeling of well-being gradually came over me and displaced the disappointment of a lost holiday. This was a good note on which to leave England and we’d definitely be back.

The 'C' Word

So here’s the situation. We’re back home again, but only for another hour when we fly back to UK. A little holiday from our holiday, you might say.

We were out shopping on Monday afternoon in Southampton when I got a text saying to get in touch with an Ear, Nose and Throat consultant I had seen just before we left. I had an inflamed gland in my neck and he had taken some samples from it to see what bug I was infected with so he could prescribe the right antibiotic.

Too late to phone them on Monday afternoon. Apparently text messages take a while to come through sometimes. So tried to phone next morning. Of course he was busy tending the sick and couldn’t come to the phone there and then so I left a message for him to phone me. When he hadn’t returned the call by lunchtime we drove out to a pub and, on the way there we came out of the cellphone dead spot we had clearly been in because about 10 ‘missed call’ messages came in all at once. When I eventually got through to the doctor there was talk of ‘suspected cell changes’ and could I get home for a hospital appointment on Friday i.e. today? After a further half hour of talking to our insurers it was arranged that we should leave our car in England, fly back home Thursday night and then return on Sunday to resume our holiday. They booked the flights and everything. So far, so smooth.

Pretty much the first thing they said at the hospital when I got there this morning was "We’ve booked you in for scanning on Tuesday and we’re going to operate on Wednesday next week".

Gulp.

Yes. I am officially a cancer patient.

Actually that sounds a lot more drastic than it actually is. The operation is a tonsillectomy, something that thousands of kids go through each year. Something which Heather had done as a kid. Still, it does rather drive a horse and cart through our holiday plans; No North Wales and we had to cancel a much-looked-forward-to get-together with some fellow-bloggers planned for this evening. Then there is the problem of the car: We’ve got to get it back before Tuesday and the Channel Tunnel is currently shut because of that fire yesterday, so you can see that we’ve a bit of a traumatic weekend lined up.

It has to be said that Heather has been an absolute tower of strength throughout all of this, sticking to her guns with the insurers and getting them to arrange the travel for us. I don’t think I could have managed that without her. I’m only sorry to have buggered up her holiday for her. It’s been a bit of an ‘Annus Horribilis’ for her this year.

It can only get better.

Out Of Time

In about 24 hours from now we will be starting off for UK. It is a long drive and, as we start out at midnight to miss the traffic, I tend to have a good sleep the afternoon of the day before so this may be the last chance I get to post before we set off, and I don’t know when we shal next be near a computer we can post from. Suddenly the holidays are upon us: I don’t know where the time has gone! We’re really looking forward to it because, for the first time in 20 years we are able to go away together, just the two of us, for more than just a few days and we can do just about whaterver we feel like doing without having to take the kids into consideration (and you can read into that whatever you like!).

For the second week of our break we have rented a cottage in North Wales, right on the edge of Snowdonia. Our philosophy is: If the weather is good we’ll get our boots on and go out to see some scenery. If the weather is rotten, we’ll stay in our cosy little cottage and make our own amusement. It’s all good!

Maybe we’ll be able to get a quick post in on our travels, and catch up with all the other blogs we so love to read, but if not then we’ll see you all in three weeks time!

Getting Back

I woke. Not a dreamy drift from sleep to consciousness but a leap. As if a switch had been thrown. I was alert in an instant. I had no idea what the time was. I assumed it was close to morning because I felt so awake.Heather was asleep in my arms, her back to me. All I could see of her in the dim light was her shoulder, but I could imagine the rest.

As has been the case for too many nights recently, we were both too tired for anything other than sleep when we got to bed. Stress and overwork and various worries have taken their toll and our sex life has been in the doldrums, while everyday life has been strained, with occasional spats of bad temper on both sides. But now I was awake and alert and ragingly, achingly hard. The need was on me and it wasn’t to be denied.

I ran my hand down the curve of her back then across her stomach before thrusting it down until it rested on her glorious pubic hair, clasping her to me and letting her feel my hardness digging into her. She murmered, still half asleep. I parted her bum-cheeks none too gently and she lifted one leg unsteadily. I spat into my hand and used it to wet my cock and just jabbed it into her.

She was deliciously wet. Who knows what she had been dreaming? I draped one hand around her warm soft breasts while the other clutched at her throat and I just banged away relentlessly into her until I came with a grunt. I moved to pull myself out of her but she moved with me. I tried again, she moved again, trapping me inside her. I gave up and wrapped my arms around her again and we fell asleep, still joined.

I woke again. It was 3.30 am and I was still inside her. She awoke at the same moment, pulled clear of me and wandered off to the bathroom. It was our first sex for a fortnight and not a word had passed between us during that five minutes of frantic rutting, but it felt good. Somehow it felt as if everything was going to be all right again.

A Award

I got this from the lovely Giggle:



The citation reads as follows:

'Thinny (that's me!) - who's blog I adore!!! He is a big softie romatantic and has a clever way of twisting his witty posts in a way that has you begging for more! xx'.

Well thank you, Giggle, you always make me smile but I do feel a bit of a fraud inasmuch as my postings have been way down recently and I must have come across as a bit of a misery guts. Both of these due to pressure of work, anxieties and the tensions that come from those things. Hopefully, things are looking up now, though.

Apropos of which, I stopped by Kahless' blog tonight (something I only do occasionally. So many blogs, so little time...) and found she had linked to this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3B49N46I39Y&feature=related

I make no apology for doing the same, because there is no way you can watch this and not be uplifted. Have a read of the rest of the post that goes with it as well.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to read the latest episode of 'Rat Girl'.

Worse Things Happen At Sea

We were all set up for a good weekend. We were invited to a party in Copenhagen. A big family get-together in a posh restaurant, the sort of party you couldn’t say no to even if you wanted to. We were free from about mid-morning on Friday and all of Saturday and we had booked a hotel for the Friday night. The plan was that we would drive to the hotel, arriving in good time to freshen up and change, then take a taxi to the restaurant and then, having been delivered back again by taxi at whatever time in the morning the bash finished, we would spend a leisurely day on Saturday, enjoying the sights of Copenhagen. What could possibly go wrong?

It was a glorious sunny day, the motorway was free of traffic and we made it to the ferry terminal in plenty of time (unlike the last time). We had a leisurely lunch on the ferry and a leisurely drive to the hotel on the other side. All seemed set fair for some leisurely hotel sex, and then a leisurely shower before setting out for the party. Having taken the luggage up to the room, I left Heather to unpack while I went down to re-park the car. On the way back to the room I stopped off to collect some ice cubes from the machine in the lobby. Quite apart from cooling down drinks you can do all sorts of naughty things with ice cubes.

Alas! As the lift doors opened on our floor, I was met by a solomn-faced Heather.

”You’re going to kill me…” She started.

”What’s happened?”

”Well, the skirt I was going to wear tonight…It must be still draped over the chair in the bedroom. I forgot to pack it. I’m just going to have to go out and buy a new one”.

I was quite philosophical about the whole thing. Or maybe just fatalistic.

"Worse things happen at sea" I said to her as we went down to the nearby shopping centre. In the back of my mind were the misadventures I had just read about here. I think we'd got off lightly by comparison.

Heather was very apologetic which, in itself must be a rare experierience. It can’t be often that a woman regrets having to buy new clothes, but in this case it did mean that we missed out on the chance of some hotel sex.

OK, we had sex when we got back from the party at about 3.30 am, in a drunken, fumbling, groping sort of way, but that was sex in a hotel, not hotel sex. There is a subtle difference.



P.S. No picture of the JBFI hotel bed either because the batteries in my camera and my mobile decided to die simultaneously. You’ll just have to make do with this from the same hotel a year ago when we had more than our fair share of hotel sex. With ice cubes.