Where the Corn Grows Higher than your Eyes

Those of you who have come late to this tale might be interested in knowing that you are joining in the middle of the epic. May I suggest that you first acquaint yourself with the innovatively named Part One followed, in the nature of radical nomenclature, by Part Two and then Part Three?

Should you be rejoining the story, or do not have the inclination to read the previous parts, allow me to recap.

Inspector Jones is a policeman with problems. He appears to be married to person or persons unknown, he has grown a moustache that has turned out ginger and the case he is working on is making very little sense. Something inside his brain his telling him that he isn’t investigating the international macramé racket. However, his Superintendent believes he is and wants to know why Jones suspects the late, lamented Horace Adkins, the renowned Barbers Shop Quartet Impresario, of being involved.

Apart from the nagging doubts, bands of enraged Buddhist monks, marching bands and a growing affection for a pink Ford Zephyr Mark III, all Jones has to go on is an old paperback and the body of an unknown man that was dragged from the Thames after he drowned; the post-mortem suggesting a tragic accident caused by swimming too soon after taking a large high tea.

Now read on...

Jones took the evidence bag and locked it in the top drawer of his desk. Slowly and distractedly, he walked from the office. In the briefing room, four constables on night shift were practising for the upcoming championship. Sergeant Collins was leaning against the doorway observing. Jones walked over and stood behind him.

“Evening, Sergeant Collins.” He greeted the rotund sergeant cheerfully. “How are they coming along?”

The sergeant turned, held a finger to his lips to silence him and turned back to the four burly constables. They were well into their high energy dance routine, dressed as Judy Garland while singing a cappella to the title number from ‘Oklahoma’.

The dance routine ended with the four making a human pyramid. Jones stayed silent until the pyramid had broken up and the constables were towelling themselves down next to the lockers.

“Well, what do you reckon to our chances when we take on ‘C’ Division?” Jones asked Collins.

“I dunno.” Collins shook his head while sucking in breath noisily. “Losing Constable Singh to that trifle related injury was a big blow, best falsetto in the force he were, but yer know? I reckon we’ve got the measure of ‘em this year.”

Jones nodded and patted the Sergeant on the back. The inter-divisional light entertainment championships were a big event. Winning brought great prestige and a year’s subscription to a tanning salon for the winning station. Collins had drilled their entry for as long as anyone could remember.

Jones waited until he was downstairs before ringing his bookie and placing a bet on ‘C’ Division.

In the car park, Jones pressed the unlock button on his key fob. A Datsun Cherry flashed its indicators and chirruped happily. Jones tried again and the same lime green Datsun responded. Jones screwed his eyes shut and tried a third time, but the same car still chirruped cheerfully in response.

The drive home was relatively uneventful. Jones had to take evasive action when a llama carriage bolted along the Embankment and there had been some slight delays south of the river due the crowds waiting for a personal appearance by Saintly Sam Smiley and his Syncopated Souls.

While he crawled through the crowds in the congested traffic, he listened to the news. It was all about the untimely death of Horace Adkins and the myriad of conspiracy theories already warming the circuits of the internet.

Eventually, Jones turned the Datsun into his quiet South London street, bounded by rows of neat, terraced houses before swinging it into his driveway, narrowly missing the expensive Mercedes parked in front of the double garage.

Jones looked at the large, whitewashed art-deco house with its sweeping curves and geometric features. He got out his wallet and checked the address against his Driving Licence. They tallied.

“Well, this is getting odder by the minute” He muttered to himself as he got out of the car.

Getting to the front door, he tentatively tried his house key in the lock. It worked perfectly. Jones took a deep breath and walked in.

The sight of the leggy blonde stopped Jones in his tracks. She was stood in the archway that led to the kitchen posing provocatively wearing only a short, pink, silk robe trimmed with white fur. Blue eyes sparkled under her straw blonde fringe as she pouted and winked at the Inspector.

“There you are, Darling” Her voice oozed, causing Jones to shiver. “Does my poor, overworked, husband need to be relaxed?”

“Pippa..” Jones stopped himself before adding Hucknell. “What are...”

“What am I doing here?” She sashayed slowly towards the Inspector before pausing mere inches in front of him. “I’m here to welcome my husband home after a long, hard day in the office.”

Pippa run her hands slowly down Jones’ chest, adding, “to make all that horrible stress disappear.”

The kiss that followed was long, slow and made Jones moan. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been kissed like that by a beautiful woman. He couldn’t remember when he had been last been kissed. His hands started to glide over Pippa’s back and pull her even closer and the lack of memory didn’t worry him.

Pippa broke the kiss.

“Why don’t you get comfortable while I rustle up some dinner?” Pippa’s eyes sparkled. “I know it’s only Tuesday, but I have had a big scoop today and I want us to celebrate.”

Pippa turned and walked towards the kitchen, paused, looked over her shoulder and gave a playful growl. “I hope you have some energy left, tiger.”

Jones bolted into his study. It was just as he remembered it, cluttered and lined with shelves that bowed under the weight of hundreds of books. He went directly to a shelf and pulled out his hardback copy of ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty’ by Archie McRamie.

He sat down in his leather wing-back chair and started to read. The first paragraph made him give a start.

“Mr Adkins arrived for his appointment twenty minutes early, dressed in his third best grey suit, white shirt and crimson tie. His black shoes shone as brightly as the faux diamond in his gold tie-pin.

He looked around the empty waiting room and the dozen or so tubular chairs for several minutes, before selecting the one in the corner furthest from the door.

Very deliberately, slowly, he lowered himself into the chair. He sat upright, knees and ankles pressed as tightly together as his thin, pale lips. Small, well manicured hands, with white knuckles clutched an ornate box on his lap. His grey eyes flitted around the room.

Occasionally, his head would twitch violently and a strand of oiled black hair would fall from across his balding pate and over his face. With the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, Horace Adkins would lift it back and meticulously place it back before the hand darted back to the box.

"This is it then, Horace Adkins." he spoke to himself in slightly shrill adenoidal tones. "This is good, very good. We will certainly make an impression today."

In the grip of the Zephyr

For those of you who haven't already, you should read the first part of this story, which to avoid confusion, I shall call Part One .

If you are too busy, or find that I have confused matters in my naming of Part One, then I shall give a quick recap.

Jones and Smithy are on covert surveilance in a pink Ford Zephyr Mark III. It is turning out to be anything but routine. They have both grown facial hair, their pizzas turned into kebabs and a waxwork Horatio Nelson appeared briefly to confuse matters. They also discovered that Horace Adkins comitted suicide by blowing up his Georgian Country house - although Pippa Hucknell doubts it was suicide. The Superintendant is getting nervous and sending out runners. To make matters worse, two hoodlums are hanging around the 24 hour Taekwondo Emporium.

Now read on....

A Black Cab had drawn up at the 24 hour Taekwondo shop. Darrius Kipling, aka the Baker and Dunker Phil suddenly became animated, stepping out into the street, heads darting this way and that. They opened the door of the cab and out stepped Violet Ann Adkins. The two men fawned over her and paid the cabbie.

Violet smiled at them before heading through the door of Witherspoon, Lewes, Grambling, and Witherspoon.

“That’s two of them in there now, Guv.” Smithy watched as the two heavies went back to their game of cat’s cradle. “What do they want with trial lawyers?”

Jones shrugged and then winced when he realised he was wearing brown corduroy trousers with black shoes.

Jones opened the second pizza box. It was filled with Tammy Wynette albums. As he prepared to throw them aside, he noticed, the big gold ring was back on the third finger of his left hand.
“Smithy, am I married?” he asked slowly.

Smithy turned to look at Jones with a furrowed brow. “Errr... you know, I can’t remember. No! Wait, yes, you are married, but none of us have ever met her, because.... errr... Guv, why have you never introduced us to your wife?”

Jones was sure that something was wrong. He sat in the back of the Ford Zephyr and tried to remember. The only problem was he wasn’t sure what he was trying to remember.

Ten minutes later, a Volkswagen Camper van, rolled around the corner and noisily drew alongside. Smithy wound the window down and the driver of the camper van did the same.

“Hiya, Tom” Smithy greeted his colleague cheerfully. “When did you get the afro?”

“Dunno.” Tom stroked his thick, droopy moustache. “I was as bald as a coot this morning.”

Jones examined the two policemen in the van and shook his head. “Doesn’t that seem strange to you, Tom?”

Tom looked at him with his head on one side and shrugged. “We’re here to relieve you. The Super wants you back at the station. He says you have some explaining to do.”

A marching band appeared down the street. Thirty two men dressed as George Washington drilled expertly as they belted out popular German Opera arias. Jones struggled to brief his relief above the noise while simultaneously removing the big gold ring.

Briefing complete, Smithy started up the Zephyr. A group of young girls rushed towards the marching band brandishing Bratwurst they wanted autographed. Smithy watched them engulf the conductor before pulling away.

The Zephyr crawled through the traffic with Jones cursing the latest bylaw that gave Llama drawn carriages right of way. In the back seat, Jones brooded. Shortly after they crossed the river, Jones noticed the big gold ring back on his finger. He removed it and looked at the white band of skin on his otherwise tanned finger.

“Smithy, does all of this seem normal to you?” Jones looked at the back of the young detective constable’s head while biting on his own lip.

Smithy didn’t answer at first. He had noticed a gap between a bendy-bus and a handcart. He gunned the engine and forced the Zephyr through it. The tyres squealed as he avoided a group of unicyclists and he accelerated past an ornamental fishpond on a traffic island. When clear of the hazards, he pondered the question.

“It’s why I joined the force, Guv.” Smithy grinned as he out-accelerated a tuk-tuk from the lights.

“The exploding gourds, the marching band, this pink Zephyr, the sudden growing of facial hair.” Jones paused to let the words sink home. “Are all of these everyday occurrences in your life?”

Smithy, guided the Zephyr into the car park of the police station. “Well guv, I would hate to have a boring, ordinary nine to five job.”

Jones shook his head and got out of the car.

The case against Macrame

The courtesy light illuminated Smithy in the driver's seat of the Ford Zephyr. He was peering into the rear view mirror and combing a thick, black moustache that garnished his top lip.

Jones climbed into the back seat with the two pizza boxes.

"I thought I said inconspicuous?" he barked at Smithy in a South London accent. "Anybody can spot a pink classic Ford Zephyr, you idiot."

Smithy shrugged "It was the only car in the pool that would start."

"Plonker!" Jones clipped Smithy across the head. "What's the idea with the moustache?"

"It sort of grew." Smithy licked forefinger and delicately brought his eyebrows under control. "Somewhere between Westminster Bridge and Southall."

"I don't like it." Jones spat the words as he delved into the pizza box and withdrew two Kebabs. "Something very odd is going on here. She still in there?"

"Yea" Jones checked himself in the mirror some more. "She'll be some time I reckon. Those hucksters charge by the hour."

Jones felt his top lip and swore under his breath. "I've got one too"

Smithy turned to his colleague and tutted quietly. "Oh bad luck, Guv. Yours has turned out ginger."

Jones swore again and pointed over the road to the entrance of the 24 hour Taekwondo shop. "Who are those two?"

Smithy was examining his wrist and the designer watch that now replaced his cheap timepiece. He didn't look up.

"They arrived with the woman. It's OK, I've done some sketches of 'em. I'm afraid the camera turned into a box of assorted artist materials sometime after you rang. I chose to do them in the style of Monet."

Jones looked at the two men again. He knew them. The heavy, thickset man wearing the plum shell suit was Darrius. In North London he was known as the Baker. His fruit fancies had broken the hardest of men. The other was Dunker Phil, he had a rap sheet as long as your arm. Jones hated rap.

"You know, Smithy?" Jones took a mouthful of kebab. It tasted of asparagus. "This whole case has gone weird on us. I chose a terrible day to give up crochet."


Jones Handed Smithy his Kebab and discovered that the two cans of Cola in his pocket were now fruit smoothies.

"Put the radio on." Jones tried to remove the large gold ring that now adorned the third finger of his left hand.

A phone in was in full flow. The host had a politician in the studio who was calling for the legalisation of Macramé. A women from Kensington was mounting a stout defence of the art form for social purposes.

"Harrumph" Jones tried his smoothie. It tasted of beetroot. "I was on the bust of the Macrame den in Brixton. If she saw the look in those poor kids eyes caused by inferior imported yarn, she wouldn't be so smug."

The presenter broke off the call and announced breaking news. He cut to Pippa Hucknell.

Both men in the car swore in unison. Pippa Hucknell was a journalist with a reputation in the force.

She was outside the home of the Right Honourable Horace Adkins. Or, to be more precise, what was left of it. She editorialised and theorised freely, interspersing her staccato condemnation of the authorities with descriptions of the few smoking fragments that remained of the Georgian country house and the herds of bonsai bison that had appeared on the lawns that evening.

She made it very clear that although the police were treating the case as suicide, it looked to her that sinister forces were to blame and that this was clearly linked to organised macramé gangs.

Smithy turned off the radio.

"Here, guv," he turned to his red-faced superior in the back seat. "My Kebab tastes of sardine."

Smithy looked down the street. A jogger in the away strip of the Hounslow Harriers loped easily towards them, avoiding the giant mushrooms that grew in the cracks in the pavement.

"That's all I need." Jones rolled his eyes.

The runner stopped at the back window and doffed his straw boater. Jones opened the window.

"Thanks, son." He took the offered notelet with its pictures of spring lambs on the front.

"Son?" the runner spat. "I'm all woman!"

She raised her running vest and pressed her embroidered sports bra through the open window before straightening up and running back the way she came.

Jones read the note. It was from the Superintendant, whose mobile phone was still at the cleaners after the attempt on his life with the exploding pumpkin. The Superintendant was not a happy man, he never was, but with the recent trauma and the evidence locker overflowing with contraband fridge magnets, his mood was worse than ever.

The note demanded an explanation as to why the pair was following the daughter of one of the most revered barber shop quartet managers. It demanded that Jones submit a report the next evening. It wasn't even signed with the normal love and kisses or with sketches of kittens in the margins.

"That's all I need" Jones muttered. "But it looks like he hasn't heard the news about Horace Adkins."

At that moment another jogger turned the corner. This one was sweating heavily under a multi-coloured crocheted poncho with a top hat that was balanced precariously on his head.

This one wasn't so good at avoiding the giant mushrooms. As he sprinted to the car, several were flattened releasing clouds of butterflies into the street.

This note described Horace as the recently deceased revered barber shop quartet manager and demanded the report on his desk in the morning.

Jones scratched his head. "You know Smithy, there is something odd going on here."

As he spoke, two boys appeared from an alleyway carrying a waxwork of Horatio Nelson wearing a kilt and a tam-o'shanter.

Free Range Potatoes

He’s not going to do another pig link is he?

I’m not sure how you arrived at Yahoo 360, but I came via a strange detour from Yahoo Answers. Yes, my alluring yeomen, I have entered and survived the captivating and frustrating maelstrom that is the Answers Portal.

While it seems that the vast majority of the questions are puerile or bigoted or downright strange, I still find myself returning there on occasion, hoping to find the ultimate answer to life, the universe and everything or perhaps to find a question or two that I may answer to give enlightenment to some aspiring grasshopper

For obvious reasons, I have kept this rather idealistic and illogical craving quiet, preferring not to burden you all with my condition. I suppose I should really seek treatment, but sometimes, very occasionally, my twilight forays pay off and some little gem materialises or I find myself producing something a little different.

Such a thing happened this week, when I found myself presented with the opportunity to answer the question ”Where in the UK can we get Free Range Potatoes?”. My fingers twitched, synapses sparked, the small little cogs shuddered and before I knew what had happened, I had provided enlightenment. I share that enlightenment with you all today (with a few modifications).

Henry Charles Warbarton still farms potatoes in the traditional manner near Cromer in Norfolk. Manor farm covers around 240 acres of the North Norfolk countryside. Its unique position on the coast and the rich fertile ground, means he is able to raise a number of varieties. Never having used pesticides or herbicides on the land means that there are an abundance of wild pasta plants on which the potato thrive. Access to the sea means he can breed a number of the amphibious strains that can trace their ancestry back to their epic voyage clinging to the hull of Sir Francis Drake's flagship. (Note 1)

Such is the demand for his crops, Henry no longer conducts his own harvests. He finds there are always enough true food enthusiasts willing to come catch their own.

On special holidays, the more vigorous amongst you might wish to join the North Norfolk Legume Hunt (Note 2)and capture your potato on horseback using the traditional potato waffle - a net that inspired the design of the modern potato waffle.

In the height of summer there are also trips that enable you to catch the amphibious varieties off the coast. You will find all the equipment will be provided including lines baited with the finest cheddar cheese and butter.

Whatever your choices, it is a fun filled day out. Just remember that children should not be encouraged to hunt potatoes, as they can be dangerous when cornered.

From 14th June 2006, the industry standard Crozzy Standard has been applied to footnotes.

NOTE 1: There is a lot of debate about just how the amphibious potato reached Britain. Although the majority of British children are raised on tales of the how the hardy potatoes clung to the barnacled hull of the Golden Hind as it circumnavigated the globe, the Spanish claim otherwise. They claim that Drake and attacked a galleon in the Bay of Biscay and looted the precious cargo. Whatever the truth of the matter, we got the potato and they were left with tortilla chips nesting in their bunks. Click to return

NOTE 2: The North Norfolk Legume Hunt holds the honour of being the only hunt exempted from the UK Haunting with dogs act. This is largely due to the arguments that range over the classification of the potato and the problems caused by feral potatoes.

Thankfully this has preserved this traditional practice which has been a rousing sight ever since the potato was introduced into the British countryside.

Farmers had to find ways to keep the numbers of feral potatoes down to stop them worrying the chickens and destroying local pasta crops. Without hunting, the farmers would be forced to hunt them down with mallets and mashers - a process that causes far more suffering to the wild spuds. Click to return

TECHNORATI TAGS : potato ; answers ; humour ; whimsy ; Dracula ; Drake.

Pressed Vinyl Cracked by Fluffy Slipper

Gloriously Bytesize.

Dateline Ohio, Sunday 25th February.

Welcome, my fine yeomen, to the breaking story of the decade.

Amazing scenes are unfolding in Southern Ohio. Late yesterday, reports started to trickle in to the news agencies of pillars of cloud signaling the way to a small, unassuming and usually quiet street on the outskirts of town. As the sun sank in the West, the last few rays seemed to ignite the clouds and turn them into pillars of fire. (Note 1)

This network can exclusively reveal the REAL reason behind the exciting phenomenon.

Here, in typical Mid-Western suburbia a Yahoo 360 milestone will crumble to dust.

Inside a typical all American (with a hint of Welsh) home, a mild-mannered domestic goddess will rip off her fluffy slippers and share with the world her world famous pancakes.

Already queues are forming around the block. The black and whites tried to cordon off the area, but in scenes reminiscent of Close Encounters of the Third Kind people scrabbled through open country to join the queues. (Note 2)

The President mobilized the National Guard to help keep order, but for some reason they all set off for Oregon.

Thankfully, the queues are generally well mannered and behaved. Queue jumping is being punished by being placed in a large homemade cage with two young children, a TV and a Barney video.

The world waits.

Any open space in the area has been claimed by large outside broadcast trucks. The world’s media are fighting to set up their cameras in the best vantage points.

All of the major networks are here - except the Evil Murdoch Empire who found their cameras all turned to waffles and that someone poured Maple Syrup in their gas tanks.

The red carpet at the Kodak theatre is deserted as people rush of to the real hot ticket destination in Ohio.

When the first egg is cracked you will hear it here first!!

Congratulations Kerry (and to Charlie for 10000 comments). Sorry if I didn’t take it seriously.

Also, Sorry to hear that Voluptuous One is feeling a touch bruised after deciding to treat her car like dodgem – get well soon.

From 14th June 2006, the industry standard Crozzy Standard has been applied to footnotes.

NOTE 1: That’s the problem with the air quality in some of our cities today. One carelessly discarded sunbeam causes an aerial conflagration of almost biblical proportions. Click to return

NOTE 2: Indeed, I found myself waking up early and for no apparent reason making models of typical American homes out of mashed potato. Click to return

TECHNORATI TAGS : Humour ; Close Encounters ;Pancakes ; Kerry ; Murdoch; Dracula.

Weird Science of Saint Valentine

The weird science of St Valentine.

If my opening picture has disturbed any of my good yeomen, I apologise. Once again it wasn’t the picture I was looking for, it just cropped up in the search and had such a morbid curiosity about it, I felt I should use it. (Note 1)

For those of you who don’t know, the two men photographed a la Morcombe and Wise are Richard Branson, the man behind the Virgin brand, and Chris Evans former radio star and former husband to Billie Piper.

I was seeking out some irony (Note 2) to help all my fine yeomen to recover from any excesses or disappointments of February 14th. To try and preserve some semblance of romance, I decided to delay my contribution. While Cupid may be armed with a bow and arrow, he is no match for Cynicism, who lies in wait with several grades of baseball bat and an assault rifle.

Tending to view the 14th of Feb with a rather cynical eye myself, I do chuckle over the whole Saint Valentine idea. After all, he wasn't a particularly famous 'Saint' in the Christian Church. (Note 3)

Yet I digress. The reason that the Mr. Branson appears at the head of my entry is that I discovered an ally in my cynical view of the Hallmark Holiday in the BBC. Discarding all pretext to romance, the BBC decided to get to what is essentially what we all hope for by asking 'Is sex on a plane legal'? (Note 4)

According to the article, Richard Branson and Janet Jackson are both self confessed members of the Mile High Club. What I failed to discover was if this was with each other. In fact, I couldn't even discover a picture of the two together. Mind you, I'd hazard a guess that Richard Branson didn't have to have to overcome some of the practical difficulties of trying to become a member in the airplane toilet. (Note 5)

If you struggle to imagine just how you can perform in an aircraft toilet, then the story / myth behind that tree picture will have your synapses bulging and boggling like lycra underwear at an orgy. Apparently, the underwear displayed on the tree is the result of couples indulging their instincts on a ski lift. I tried to believe it, but my synapses shut down. Ski lift? In the depths of winter? Presumably at night? Can anyone put forward a practical theory as to how?

I'm sure that this blog has the various Saint Valentines spinning in their holy relic boxes. I'm not sure I can blame them, it has rather drifted away from the romance and lover to cover rather baser topics.

It might not be a great comfort, but perhaps science may give them a touch of comfort. Not that science and organised religion are often comfortable bedfellows (Sorry, couldn't resist that one).

On the radio the other day (BBC of course), I was listening to a discussion in which a scientist was explaining how attraction is based upon physical characteristics and has a lot to do with nature guiding us to choose partners who will provide us with progeny that will have the best genetic make up to enable them to survive and prosper.

Yet successful relationships rely on personality and the sharing of common interests and aspirations. Discovering whether we will be able to live and thrive will a potential partner takes time as both sides have to evaluate whether they will be able to live happily together. (Note 6)

They say that the strongest personal bond is between a Mother and her child. That bond is formed by the act of breastfeeding and the production of the hormone Oxytocin. The same hormone is produced during orgasm.

Both the scientist and organised religion were of the opinion that you should avoid following your instincts when you fancy someone. Science suggesting that sex could snare you into a disastrous relationship.

From 14th June 2006, the industry standard Crozzy Standard has been applied to footnotes.

NOTE 1: I was rather hoping to find a picture of Richard Branson with Janet Jackson (for reasons which I hope will become apparent later). Thinking about it, I fear that if I had found the picture it would have held the same morbid fascination. In case you are wondering, this isn’t a blog about various wardrobe malfunctions. Click to return

NOTE 2: Apologies to my Merkin readership. This will turn out to be heavy irony and sadly time and resources prevents me from meeting you all individually and explaining the concept with the aid of a halibut and the Ladybird book of irony. Click to return

NOTE 3: In fact it isn't entirely known if St Valentine was a single saint or a combination of three early Christian Martyrs who the Roman Emperor Claudius disposed of. Nothing seems to be known of the lives of the martyrs and nothing seems to link them to romance. The whole concept of the feast day of the 14th February could have been invented by Geoffrey Chaucer and his cronies. Now more cynical yeomen who have actually read some of the racier stories in Pilgrims Progress might jump to their own conclusions.

Personally, as a cynic, I quite like the account of Plutarch of Lupercalia, the pagan festival it possibly replaced. He wrote:-

Lupercalia, of which many write that it was anciently celebrated by shepherds, and has also some connection with the Arcadian Lycaea. At this time many of the noble youths and of the magistrates run up and down through the city naked, for sport and laughter striking those they meet with shaggy thongs. And many women of rank also purposely get in their way, and like children at school present their hands to be struck, believing that the pregnant will thus be helped in delivery, and the barren to pregnancy.

Seems like much more fun than waiting for a mass produced greetings card, some wilting out of season flowers and battered chocolates. Thinking about it, I wonder if Chaucer would have preferred it too, only was put off by the winter weather. Click to return

NOTE 4: OK, that may be a very sweeping generalisation. In my defence though, I am pretty sure that there is a pretty hefty majority of the male population who would not be seen in a florist at any other time of the year and rarely if ever send a greetings card. I reckon that their motives for doing so on this particular day have less to do with their romantic nature and far more to do with stirring hormones. Click to return

NOTE 5: Not that I can give you any practical tips here – I'm not a member of this exclusive club. I cannot even begin how to comprehend how to go about such a feat in an aircraft toilet. I find it almost impossible to use it for the purpose it was designed without mishap. I dread to think of the potential for me to do a permanent injury to either myself or my partner should I even try sex. Besides, my greatest fear would be that I some how hit the flush button while seated. Ooooo excuse me, my eyes are watering at the mere thought. Click to return

NOTE 6: As my good old Dad always tells me, good sex doesn’t last but good cooking lasts a lifetime. Click to return

TECHNORATI TAGS : Valentines ; Virgin ;Branson ; Billie Piper ; Humour; Chaucer.