The Fairy Tale …

‘Edward, we are not having sex this morning. You might as well go to work.’

‘The kids are at school. Come on’

Now readers you would presume that I had heard this conversation through the walls, but no myself, my aunt and my uncle are all sat round the kitchen table. Whilst they discuss their sex life I am gagging over my Crunchy Nut. God knows why they think I need to hear this. My aunt has also come to tell me when they have/ haven’t taken part in this activity.

‘I had to go into Reading today. Ed had the day off and there was no way I was going to be chased around the house all day by those exploring hands!’ Again something I don’t need nor want to hear. Or even worse ‘Yep did it earlier and I’ve done the cleaning. Accomplished quite a lot really.’ The smile that beams from her face insures me of two things 1) sex is part of the weekly housework and 2) accomplishments come in many different shapes and sizes.

Now I being a Nun and not experiencing the wonders of sex or, in fact a relationship that has lasted long enough for the whole ‘let’s have sex’ thing to crop up in a while, I don’t actually remember how these scenarios are dealt with. But from what I do remember sometimes you just don’t want to have sex. And the most infuriating reply to that ‘not tonight mate’ is ‘it makes me feel like you don’t love me when you say that.’

Now I want to reply ‘well you know what makes me think that you don’t love me:  1) Whenever I refuse to have sex you have a paddy and bring up the idea of ‘breaking up if we aren’t happy’ (I’m perfectly happy, go have a wank and you might realise happiness can be reached independently) 2) The act of giving you head as you thrust your dick into my mouth I can’t help but wonder is my body being used as sausage casing? 3) When you leave skid marks down the loo and you know I’ll be going in after you.

That all being said sex can be a wonderful moment joining two people together in an intimate and if you’re lucky pleasure inducing moment. However, sex can also be very awkward, positioning yourself correctly for instance. All this rolling around people do in films with their legs going everywhere and hair perfectly posed is obviously a load of bollocks. To the naive 16 year old thinking about having sex with her spotty beau such grand expectations will be sorely squashed the moment she hears one of three things 1) I can’t get it in 2) Its gone soft or 3) Do I have to wear a condom? (Always wear a condom unless you want to have a baby or you like sexually transmitted diseases. It’s awkward enough telling your mother you’re having sex without having to add on the words chlamydia or pregnant.)

This all got me thinking about Fairy Tales and for a long time I really believed that everyone had a soul mate, a person who was going to change your life and add a kind of value that can only exist when you’re truly loved. But the older I get the more I realise how rare love like that can be and if you are lucky enough to find someone who will ignore the skid marks, perform sexual favours  and asks before you leave the house if you have everything, then you really are incredibly lucky. My aunt and uncle may speak ‘inappropriately’ (in my opinion) in front of me, joke about sex and mutter under their breath for the other one to fuck off,  but that kind of love is beyond the realms of lust and infatuation. They need one another to answer the simplest things. As my aunt says ‘I can do almost everything alone, but I’ll always need Ed to mow the grass and fix the car.’

So my advice to those in love, you’re lucky and don’t think the grass is greener because I’m sure a lot of the time it’s exactly the same colour, you just need to keep on top of the watering. For those of us who are single out there, maybe don’t look for the Fairy Tale, look for a person who will water the grass with you and if you’re feeling a bit ill or mopey, someone who adds a few plants just because they can. 

To tweeze?

So readers you will be happy to know that I landed a job! A real, full time, yearly salary kind of job. In London, in Covent Garden no less. Yes check me out, a bustling career woman, six inch heels and a killer suit ….
Errr no, I don’t know why the fuck I thought that was a possibility. I’m not working for either Mode or Runway. Those dreams of a high flying job in a lucrative business have been well and truly dashed. I am in fact sat in what was a white office, now turning grey due to the accumulation of dust that has settled itself firmly upon the desks, some of it has even taken its place on the walls. I am, however, surrounded by stylishly dressed colleagues. The gentleman who sits next to me, Pete (definitely the kind of man who would press his crouch into your arse on the tube) is dressed in luminous trousers which he has fashion consciously rolled up to reveal his polka dot (purple and white) socks. But let’s be thankful that he doesn’t insist on showing us his underpants. For all the colours he is revealing I do believe they would be a worn greyish colour. I’m sure he saves that for the romantic moments he experiences with his newly shackled wife.

Obviously you are wondering what I wear! Well let me divulge, because I am running around, buying someone a note pad, emptying the rubbish, organizing the cupboards, and making tea. Mentally taxing stuff I assure you! Do I buy Earl Grey? Or would they prefer PG? Elderflower or lime cordial? Ask them if they’d like tea now or when I’ve had a chance to do a bit more shredding? I wear my trainers, they are Converse so they have a bit more weight than my Nike running shoes in the style stakes and have an incredibly flat heel, allowing me to run at great speeds round the city of London. And for clothes I dress demurely in H&M jeans, and some kind of sweat resistant top. Sorry women don’t sweat, just like they don’t shit, they glow with perspiration and defecate with purity of heart and mind.

So my first adult job isn’t quite what I thought, but the job market ‘isn’t what is used to be. You are lucky to have a job in this economic climate darling.’ As my mother continually stabs into me. But I don’t have one job, I have two. I do it for an extra £40 a week, it pays for me to go out and boogie on down …. Well that’s clearly a load of bull shit! It pays for the DVD box sets I watch peacefully alone. Anyone at 22 who says ‘boogie on down’ clearly needs to stop spending all their time with their elderly aunt.

Anyway let’s move away from my failings as a modern woman and onto the failings of the commuters I have been eyeing up. So I get the x from x to x and there is a middle aged woman, dark hair, olive coloured skin and tired looking (like everyone else, including myself). To the unobservant she is perfectly normal/ average, whatever those words mean. However, I may have stared a while too long and saw something that shocked me so much I actually felt like a prude afterward. Something I have never experienced. So this woman brought out a compact mirror, like most I imagined she would glance, touch her eyes and sigh, close the mirror and be done with it. However, she then proceeded to draw from her purse a pair of tweezers. Again touching up her eyebrows? Mistook it for a nail file? Perfectly understandable. Now this is where I am sorry to inform you that she took those tweezers and began to pluck her chin hair. Now okay we all have hair in places we would rather not. I myself have been mistaken for a man. But I deal with this issue in the privacy of a locked bathroom, or if it is needed you pay someone for the pleasure of waxing whatever you wish hair free. But no this woman got out her mirror and tweezers and had a good old pluck. I almost admired her, the boldness to say as a woman ‘I have a bit of a beard.’ It was kind of inspiring. But then she scratched her lower regions and I began to wonder ‘is this woman actually a man?’ I’ll leave that up to you to decide. I am sticking to her being a woman.
The commute is full of life, people picking, scratching and expelling all sorts. I just wonder if I’ll ever become one of them?