Friday, 29 May 2009

The Joy of Flirtation

I do like a flirt.

The very best kind of flirting leaves me giddy and a little silly, as if I had just necked a bottle of champagne. Only with less burping. Mostly.

Oh, a quality flirt is an uncommon treat. I savour them when they occur. I enjoy each parry and thrust of conversation, the pleasurable jolt of eye contact. I savour every delicious moment of understanding.

A skilfull flirtation is like a Funsize relationship. All that promise and possibility condensed into a five minute phone call or chance encounter in the newsagents, and with none of the bad bits. No regrets or recriminations, no drama, you just smile and move on to the rest of your day.

I like a good flirt. Bad flirts, on the other hand, are, at best, like being slobbered on by an over-exuberant bloodhound and, at worst, like being chatted up by Dirty Bert the comedy perve. A clumsy attempt at flirtation is just awkward and embarrassing for all concerned.

So, tell me. When did you last enjoy a really good flirt?

Tuesday, 26 May 2009


When being accused of not caring
I smile and say "Thank you for sharing.
Feedback such as yours
One simply ignores
Or I'd never be funny or daring.

Some take candour for lack of concern
The truth hurts but it ensures we learn
I don't deal in fluff
The love here is tough
But it's real, as the smart ones discern.

Wednesday, 20 May 2009

A Very Public Affair

Now, this may come as a surprise to some of you (those who have never read my blog before, or have been trapped in a concrete bunker on Mars for the past year or so) but I am not overly fond of adultery bloggers.

That is not to say I tar the whole genre with the same brush. There are some who write sensitively and honestly. Then again, there are some who write with a thinly veiled glee at how clever they are at this duplicitous lifestyle and a desperate need to be found sexually appealing by strangers.

Still, these I can understand. I get what they are doing and why. I have a harder time getting to grips with those who seem to have lost the ability to use private email, letters or the telephone and instead conduct their break-ups and make-ups as publically as possible, via the medium of blogging.

Is it a wannabe celeb thing? A chance to feel a tiny bit like Katie Price and Peter Andre, to feel like the world is watching your love life through a lens and that everyone is agog to know what happens next? Does it add that sub-Hello magazine touch of glamour as you slop about your council flat in your Matalan dressing gown, cheap mascara streaming through your fake tan into your balled Kleenex, as you detail the minutaie of your illicit relationship to an undiscerning handful of online misfits and social inadequates who just love to watch a train wreck?

Does it stem from a desire to wallow for a just a brief moment in the low wattage spotlight of what paltry online fame you can generate as the author of yet another unoriginal, uninspiring sex blog? "Look, we are sex bloggers, we both have blogs, we are fucking each other! Look, we are like a blog celebrity couple! Oh no, we have split up. Boo hoo. Oh no, we are back together again and we are in love forever. Smooch smooch. Except now I've dumped him." And so on.

Or is it, as I suspect, more about the fact that such people need an audience to validate what they have? After all, when you are meeting up with someone other than your life partner for secret sex you can't just turn to your friend, family member or colleague and ask their opinion on what your lover just said or did without giving the game away. It starts to feel unreal, this secret relationship that exists only online, in hotel rooms, in your memory, in a bubble. Rather than talking to each other in private it all comes out online. Tearful recriminations, doleful dumpings, lurid tales of spunk and sodomy, along with declarations of undying love, all carefully performed to the peanut gallery. On a repetitive loop. Because that makes it better, more special, more real, like a proper relationship, and not just a fantasy fuckfest.

It all comes back to the philosphical question of: if two sex bloggers shag but nobody blogs it, did it really happen?

Tuesday, 19 May 2009

Wobbly and Dangerous

After a Russian themed party weekend, which is most likely to make you feel sore all over the next morning?

Vodka jellies...

...big Red Luka...

..or a terrifying combination of both?

Wednesday, 13 May 2009

Maybe It's Because You're a Londoner (That You Forget Other Places Exist)

I am entertaining again this week. Once more I shall be the hostess with the mostess and welcoming my friends as they arrive at Lukaland for a few days of over-indulgence. Many of these are friends from London. They have to come to visit me as I refuse to visit them. I hate the city.

Not that they mind. I live in a spectacularly beautiful place and am blessed with idyllic surroundings a million miles removed from the grimy, litter-strewn streets of London. No advertising hoardings here, no gum-caked pavements, no filthy blasts of diesel fumes from thundering buses, no crushes of bodies swarming mindlessly for a tube train because there won't be another for at least - oh - two minutes. It is peaceful here, it is green, lush, full of wildlife and friendly people with whom you can make eye contact, or idle conversation in the post office.

Yes, my London chums enjoy their escapes to the country and happily indulge my reluctance to travel to them. I have been unable to cure the other few million London-dwellers of their insular behaviour though. To this day most Londoners refuse to accept there is civilised life beyond their urban sprawl and seem to think living like a battery hen is not only desirable but aspirational. There is a mindset of self absorption, a belief that things that happen in the city just do not, cannot, occur elsewhere. Snow happens often and abundantly in other areas of the country, for example, yet a flake or two in London and it's front page news.

I have even had would-be suitors, smitten, unsurprisingly, by my online display of wittily turned phrases and plump body parts, discard me as a potential plaything simply because I do not live in London. While I am not actively seeking would-be suitors, being a disgustingly smugly satisfied married woman who no longer does that sort of thing, I enjoy the thrill of flirtation and the excitement of possibility as much as anyone. I am left to surmise that anyone who does not understand that a fine specimen such as myself is well worth a couple of hours travel time and a tentative exploration beyond the concrete cocoon of the city is spectacularly blinkered and a mammoth twat to boot.

How strange, I think, that these people would expect me to get on a train and travel for hours through the arse end of every town en route (a depressing composite of concrete, bad graffiti, scraggly weeds and warehouses) and then toil through the termite mound of London just to spend a few precious hours in the glow of their company and yet wouldn't dream of taking the same journey themselves, in reverse. "A meet in the country?" I sense them think in perplexity. "How perverse! Where would we have coffee? Where are the hotels that rent by the hour? How can I work my urbane charm, how can I make my excuses and leave, speedily, when far from the city? Can I really be arsed to travel for fucking hours when all that awaits are fields of straw-chewing yokels and the spectre of an unfulfilling flirtation ankle deep in mud whilst sucking on a turnip, alluringly?"

Thank goodness for the enlightened, my beloved Londoners who have made the journey to Lukaland. They shall be fed well and plied with the finest alcohol. There will be music, dancing and laughter. They will trade their urban night time soundtrack of car alarms, thudding baselines pounding from passing hot hatchbacks, wailing sirens and the constant rumble of traffic for the hooting of owls, the wind whispering through the trees, lowing calves and wine-fuelled lyrical outbursts from yours truly. Now how can any city compete with that?

Wednesday, 6 May 2009

The Glutton's Lament

I have overindulged
I am bloated
It's true
I have drunk too much wine
My poor liver!
I knew
I would eat my own weight
In fine cheeses
Bread too
When throwing a party
Over a week
Or two.