Stuck up a hill in Yorkshire is not the place to be at this time of year if you don’t like rain. Well, that’s where our house is and although we do like the weather, and the scenery and the wildlife it does have its drawbacks. The satellite dish is being battered by the wind and loosing signal, so we can’t even catch up on the latest embarrassing revelation about parliamentary funding. It may be cruel but The look of smugness on Gordon Brown’s face when he took over from Blair, now turning to shear terror as the gravity of the allegations regarding party funding dawn on him is a constant source of amusement. I’m so bad.
So if you can’t watch the PM being acutely embarrassed what can you do? Well it’s Sunday, it’s warm in bed and … fill in the blanks.
But it’s not this afternoon’s little romp that I’m writing about. Last night we indulged in a little toy testing (reviews coming shortly) and then some really great, multi-orgasmic sex. My orgasm was a particular classic, culminating in me letting out a series of howls that would not have been out of place on a Hammer Horror soundtrack.
It’s only afterwards as I lay in a warm golden haze next to Suze, air suffused with the aroma of sexual fulfilment that I realised a taxi had pulled up outside and our next door neighbours must have been lugging suitcases up the drive as I howled at the moon (so to speak).
Odd, it was as if part of my subconscious decided to rewind the auditory signals my brain had recorded a minute or too after the event so I could here them with perfect clarity, without the filter afforded by my orgasm. Perhaps part of me wanted to ensure that if I got any funny looks on Monday morning as we made our way to our respective vehicles for the drive to work … I would know exactly why.