Only just. It's taken me half an hour to get on to the blog. Technology and moi are not in the same carriage. Only my hair to cut and the missus will kindly do that. I am confident she won't scalp me as I behaved myself last night. It was a fiftieth. The lovely lady whose birthday it was danced over with what I thought was a suggestive manner. The dance was full of eastern promise with her hands fluttering and waving like a butterflies wings. I blew out the candle and stripped off her long slinky black gloves, slowly peeling them down as if they were black stockings. They were. She had very kindly lent me a pair of anti embolism stockings for the flight. We set off to Heathrow in two hours. The missus told me to wear loose trousers so that I would be comfortable. I don't want them to fall down mid flight so I asked the lady in question if I could borrow her suspender belt. She asked me If I wanted 'frilly' or 'standard'. As we are flying Economy without frills I asked for the latter. I mean I don't want people to talk. The last time I talked about stockings and suspenders was when my missus and I were on the way down to Spain. We stopped off as you do overnight in a hotel. I can be kind of romantic. Read on.
We cleaned our teeth. I got into bed wearing only my boxer shorts and my hush puppies. The missus was next in wearing a slip, a gully, sorry! Black bra, knickers, stockings and suspenders. (I take it all back about that handbag). Despite my bowling arm being dodgy I began to stroke her. I took my glasses off so my mind could improve the picture I was getting, like they do with those image intensifiers that you can see or just about make out on TV. You know, like they use on Channel 4 to see if it’s a clean snatch I mean catch. My mate used to think that it was a disadvantage to me when we were at the local swimming pool as with my poor eyesight I couldn’t see the talent clearly. I had to disagree as I hadn’t seen a single woman without a perfect body. He replied ‘precisely’. I left it go there as the chlorine was getting to my eyes and my swimming trunks were getting uncomfortable as a Norah Batty look-alike had just got in the pool.
The missus, not having access to the same hardware, turned the light out. My spinning finger slid up the seam of her left stocking. Automatically I switched to the right. I pulled back the covers… into the deep….the phone rang! It was her mother as usual at such times. She must have installed an early warning system into her daughter’s crotch that is touch sensitive, that time she visited her in hospital; a sort of golden receiver. Believe it or not she was calling from an hotel in Torquay, but it wasn’t Basil’s. Our other son who was house sitting his gran’s house and contemplating the world of work had told his gran that the summer house she ordered for her other daughter in Wales had arrived at gran’s place instead of the daughter’s, and it was lying on the lawn. That daughter by the way will be lying on the exact beach in Spain that we are heading for. On reflection, which I suppose is what I am doing; I can understand why the phone call took 30 minutes. What I don’t understand is why the missus didn’t imitate Victor Meldrew rather than Sybil, by saying ‘I don’t believe it!’ instead of ‘I know.’ every 15 seconds.
Rather than let sleeping dogs lie, the missus woke me up with a twang of her knicker elastic, and like one of Pavlov’s dogs, I started to salivate. I didn’t do Biology at GCE so I had no idea about the examination questions on natural lubrication, stimulus and response. I didn’t study equine studies either, but I knew not to look a gift horse in the mouth and I moved down, safe in the knowledge that this was not the night for playing ‘Dutch ovens’. Reception was good so I gently probed the crease. I was beginning to regret that I gave up woodwork, as I was making French connections between tongue and groove. The phone rang again showing that reception was better than I thought. As we all know because of that implant, it was her mother again. We had known for ages that grandpa had lost his dentures. We knew that he’d lost them before they went to that hotel. She had rung to say that she had found them ‘…in her knickers!’
The messages from my taste buds changed from wine and roses to cheese and onion. She had found his teeth in the laundry basket attached to the gusset of one of her pairs of giant knickers. ‘Like father-in-law like son’, went through my head and although I had nothing against grandpa there were some thoughts I just didn’t want to entertain. The missus rolled over but I told her’ It’s not tonight Josephine, Cilla or Cliff’. I was trying to explain optimistically that the next tonight will be tomorrow night, but she didn’t hear me as I was talking through her knickered ass while her mother was talking through her ass about knickers.
I decided that enough was enough so I swiped her pillow, dropped off to sleep and turned my attention to the Maid of Bordeaux. I dreamed about being dressed up as the Maid of Orleans giving V signs to Boudicca who was covered in green wode and was being driven by Jimmy McGregor in her chariot round a field with white cows in designer sunglasses wearing defensive fielding positions while two sunflowers were batting rather well. Pylons are umpiring. Even I could see that I was unlikely to get a game, and I didn’t like the sight of the pile of sawdust at the bowler’s end which appeared to be smouldering. More realistically I set my mind to how I could bring myself into contention for selection into the England team, by converting to a demon spin bowler. I woke up coughing, before I got into Gravesend’s third team. The pressure must have been getting to me as I needed a wee. It must have been all those drinks breaks in the fourths and the number of fags they smoke in the warm ups.
I got back in. She’d retaken the pillow. I could see by her expression that she’d been playing goal attack for England, even though she’s really Welsh. I said ‘shoot’. She sat up; I swiped the pillow back and crashed off to sleep. I woke up at eight to find that she’d got the pillow propped up behind her and was reading her book giggling in that supercilious way which is supposed to say that her book is better than your book. To counter the argument that it was making her laugh anyway, I didn’t hear a single guffaw until I woke up. I asked her what time breakfast was. She chortled ‘Any time before 9.30’. We were obviously suffering from jet lag as it was only 7.30 and our bodies were responding as if we were still in Britain. The missus confirmed this by farting and saying ‘me’ after ‘pardon’.
If I can cope the next installment will be from down under, misssus' mother or no missus' mother.
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