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I am rather disinclined to get hitched again. This little revelation has caused the well-meaning fans-of-the-free-chicken-dinner to emit horrified gasps, and when they’ve finished performing dramatic intakes of air and foppish swoons, they all trot out one predictable question – “Aren’t you afraid of ending up alone?”. The answer I give them is a heart-felt no. A wedding ring is no more guarantee against loneliness than a marshmallow is.
It seems to me that the majority of people out there ...

It is a well documented fact that while The Queen has two birthdays a year and dogs have 7 birthdays a year (or however that works), I don’t have any birthdays at all. I gave them up in a bid to remain forever young and free of birthday remorse (a bit like buyer’s remorse but with more wrinkles) but I see it happen to others. To be honest I am just repulsed by the atrocity that is ‘the birthday cake’. There’s an old joke which theorises that birthday cake causes wrinkles; the more birthday cakes ...

Okay, I’m going to take a rare and brazen stab at politics. Well, it seems that any ninny is doing so and I see no reason why my lack of jam roly-poly education and economic credentials should hold me back. Since time immemorial governing bodies have pondered how best to fund the roads, drains and armies that serve the good people... and the duck castles that festoon the lakes in their second country piles. Taxation has always been the answer but in varied forms; once upon a somewhen, it was the ...

I recently had a discussion with a man about fellatio vs cunnilingus. As a general rule, my opinion on cunnilingus is.... if you want to eat it, tuck in, but I won’t shame you if you’d rather not, there are many ways to pleasure a woman. However, what I DO object to is the implication that it’s far more onerous to ask someone to give cunnilingus than it is to ask for a blow job. The twit said:“The ***** is a simple thing – it’s hard to get things completely wrong.”
ARE YOU ****TING ME, SUNSHINE? ...

The air was oppressively hot, like the whole of town was a locked car. There was no breeze to offer relief and the only things that moved fast were the trickles of perspiration down glistening sunburnt skin. This was boob sweat weather, the worst kind of heat, with nowhere to hide and not enough unattended kiddies’ paddling pools to hijack. I did the only thing a girl could do in this weather; I wore as little as gynaecologically decent and did my best impression of a rotisserie chicken in the garden, ...