Thursday, March 17, 2005
Rattle And Hum
Drop your trousers for a moment and tell me about your knees.
Or if you’re wearing a skirt, just hitch it up for a second.
Oh come on, don’t be such a prude. It’s not as if anybody will be watching. Obviously, I’ll be watching, through my magical web cam that allows me to look at all of my readers, but nobody else will see you.
Trust me. Honestly, you can be so up yourself sometimes.
My knees are developing strange little muscles on them, the only noticeable change to my otherwise droopy physique after squillions more hours panting frighteningly on the exercise bike. I’m sure they weren’t there before.
I was just wondering. Jesus, I’m sorry I asked.
Stella sent me to another major European capital this week. Oh alright then, it was London.
The job was pretty straightforward - although I’m not telling her that - and I finished in time to knock off early and buy an All Day Pissabout ticket for the Tube.
I spent a happy hour or so stocking up on bondage gear in Camden, then went to Badger Mansions for tea. We drank wine, ate alarmingly pungent cheese and talked about, you know, just stuff. It was really great.
Then Lisa Badger and TA escorted me back to the nearest Underground inlet and despatched me on my way.
I felt oddly proud of myself for negotiating tubes and buses in London at night without coming to Great Harm, such as haplessly becoming a prostitute, which I believe can happen all too easily to vulnerable lost souls like myself in the big city.
Back at the hotel I watched something startling on a TV channel I don’t think we get at home, then fell into a stuffy restless sleep.
The tinny rattle of aeroplanes and the low somnambulant hum of night porters wafted in through the air conditioning while I dreamed longingly of Girlfriend and exotic cheeses.
Or if you’re wearing a skirt, just hitch it up for a second.
Oh come on, don’t be such a prude. It’s not as if anybody will be watching. Obviously, I’ll be watching, through my magical web cam that allows me to look at all of my readers, but nobody else will see you.
Trust me. Honestly, you can be so up yourself sometimes.
My knees are developing strange little muscles on them, the only noticeable change to my otherwise droopy physique after squillions more hours panting frighteningly on the exercise bike. I’m sure they weren’t there before.
I was just wondering. Jesus, I’m sorry I asked.
Stella sent me to another major European capital this week. Oh alright then, it was London.
The job was pretty straightforward - although I’m not telling her that - and I finished in time to knock off early and buy an All Day Pissabout ticket for the Tube.
I spent a happy hour or so stocking up on bondage gear in Camden, then went to Badger Mansions for tea. We drank wine, ate alarmingly pungent cheese and talked about, you know, just stuff. It was really great.
Then Lisa Badger and TA escorted me back to the nearest Underground inlet and despatched me on my way.
I felt oddly proud of myself for negotiating tubes and buses in London at night without coming to Great Harm, such as haplessly becoming a prostitute, which I believe can happen all too easily to vulnerable lost souls like myself in the big city.
Back at the hotel I watched something startling on a TV channel I don’t think we get at home, then fell into a stuffy restless sleep.
The tinny rattle of aeroplanes and the low somnambulant hum of night porters wafted in through the air conditioning while I dreamed longingly of Girlfriend and exotic cheeses.

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