Naughty Letters to Ms. Mac

Countless noble souls (and many fluffy kittens) sacrificed their lives during the making of this blog. We think you will agree they were worth it.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

This Just In, From Our Correspondent in Hong Kong

Dearest Ms. Mac,

Have the tedium and drudgery of life without me been slowly sapping your will to live? Do you draggingly place one foot in front of the other, resisting with all your might the inexorable tugging at your calves of the quicksands of your daily laundry room-hoovering-groceries-quibbling with Swiss neighbours routine?

Fear not! Take heart! I`m back in the blogging hotseat and ready to invite you to share the exotic details of my blitzkrieg visit to throbbingly tropical Hong Kong. But first I must get some sleep and have a good meal, as I am feeling strangely faint and feverish from jet lag. I know you are feeling deep pity for me, and for that I am grateful.

Love and kisses,
Ms. Dazed and Confused


Saturday, June 21, 2008

Dearest High Flyer,

Bon Voyage my dear. May you have a lovely drug-induced relaxing flight during which the children are well taken care of by the in-seat babysitter as they play Super Mario and watch terrible fillums. May your in-flight food be divine and your booze be free of charge. May the winds be at your tail, pushing you along, just ever so slightly so that you reach your destination early.

Tomorrow I shall watch the friendly skies all day long; every plane I see fly across the centre of Europe will remind me of you and of how much I will miss you while you gallivant around the world, charming airline staff with your god-given talent for chit-chat and handsome fellow travellers with your magnificent bosom. (Please remember to charm a gentleman sufficiently in order that he will grab your gigantic suitcases off the carousel, thereby saving your back from further injury.) I shall wave my white hanky at each and every one so please, look down from your mighty height and give us a wave.

I shall check my phone obsessively for the next few weeks and curse Mr Clever Clogs if he doesn't have you back online by Singapore.

Travel safely, my beloved. My heart is torn in two already from the ache of missing you.

Heart-broken love and quisses,


Completely Fucking Fucked!

Dearest Darls,

I don't think it's possible for a human bean to feel any more exhausted than I today. It's after 9 pm and Pauline's suitcase is still not packed. Everything happened late today: delays, appointments, gossipy visitors, apéro with the neighbours. At least I can relax on the plane tomorrow!

I don't know if Mr Clever Clogs With Computers will be able to fix my sexting to Switzerland problem tonight. I'll sext you a test msg right now. He can fix it for me later, when the stress of departure is over!

Be good while I'm gone.

But not too good! 'Cos that would be boring.

Love & kisses,


Last Day In France

Dearest Ms. Mac and soon-to-be very far away Soulie indeed,

OMG! Only one more sleep until I go to New Zealand again. Aoteoroa, land of the long white cloud. HOME!

Although I doubt that there will be much actual slumber involved in my last sleep. This morning I got up at 1:30 and padded silently around the house, writing new lists of lists of Stuff To Do and carefully tweaking my meticulous suitcase contents planning project in my mind.

After scoffing vast quantities of deliciously summery fresh apricots and cherries (which will all be finished by the time I get back to France), I eventually succumbed to the siren call of trashy magazines and a half-tablet of muscle relaxant before going back to bed. That wonderful drug makes all my limbs incredibly floppy, and French Hubby decided it would be amusing to raise one of my arms or legs high in the air and let it come crashing down again to reverberate satisfyingly on the mattress. Many times over.

Needless to say, I'm going to miss you horribly during my five weeks away. I just won't be spending my days in front of a computer, so our electronic intercourse will be limited. If your raging desire for telephonic intercourse with me becomes so great, you can of course call me at my parents' house.

I always like to answer my parents' phone by saying "Good morning! You have reached Antipo's Gambling Emporium and House of Ill Repute. Please press 1 for the Casino, press 2 for Massage (with benefits), press 3 for Illegal Armaments, press 4 to Hire a Hitman, press 5 for Deviant Practices and press 6 for Accounting. Thank you, and have a NICE DAY!"

If my friends are calling they usually chuckle dutifully, but if it's my parents' friends, I am usually met with a bemused silence. My greeting possibly needs some work in the Humour Department. I await your suggestions.

So farewell, Joyful Scottish Maiden! (Okay, I guess maiden is pushing it a bit). Just remember that absence makes the heart grow fonder! And it's no use crying over spilt milk. And fine words butter no parsnips. Or something.

Also, remember I have spies in many countries, so if any reports of a ravishing, curly, curvy, Scottish-Australian blogging total vixen canoodling with any nubile, intellectually inferior blogging bimbos were to reach my ears on the other side of the globe, there will be HELL to pay.

I'm just sayin'!

Doped-up love and not-worried-at-all kisses,


Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Dearest Joyful Scottish Maiden,

Our readers will just have to wonder why you are so joyful today, won’t they? Tee hee!

I talked myself hoarse at work this morning, explaining My Important Stuff to our young trainee. Now I just want to curl up and sleep until next year. I was up till midnoight registering ballet cheques and making invoices, and compiling lists of nordy unpaying ballet parents for the teacher to scold in my absence.

Will go to ballet school end-of-term dinner tonight at my Lesbian Lover's crêperie, hurrah! Cider and crêpes all round.

AND best news of the moment is: no work tomorrow, but haircut in the morning and beauty parlour facial and massage in the afternoon - because I'm worth it.

Daughter is going out to Parc Astérix for the whole day with friends. Son has only one hour of school tomorrow and will play footie with his mates in the afternoon. I just can't wait for the soothing hands of the lovely masseuse on my gnarled and stressed out skin. She does the massage all over, and I mean ALL OVER. I'll be wearing nowt but a paper g-string. She even does the whole chest area, cleverly avoiding the nipples, so it's not erotic but soooooooo relaxing. I'll be asleep for most of it, I reckon. It's expensive but I only do it once every two or three years: always before my trips to NZ!

Must go and do a wee lick o' work. If I can be arsed.

Shattered kisses and comatose love,


Monday, June 16, 2008

Slowly Recovering From Monday Morning

Dearest Queen of Naughtiness,

What I want to know is, how did you get such intimate photos of MY Seb Chabal?

I just had a lovely, flirty chat with Australian David who looks like Alan Rickman.

He was a bit tired and couldn't remember whether he had my email address or not. He said (and I quote) "Have I got your thingie on my thingie?"

Quoth I: "Not right at this moment, but I feel sure it will only be a matter of time...."

Don't you just hate those pretentious people who say "quoth I"?

Me too.

You really are the very best soulie in the whole wide world. I can’t thank you enough for your private email sent early this morning, to cure me of my Mondayitis.

You completely took my mind off my bad night, sore back, asthmatic cough (I know I still can't spell athsma/asthma correctly. Or fuschia.), and zillion other little niggling worries, with your tales of s*xual torment and - it must be said - uncharacteristic lapses into bitchery. I truly believe I should be paying you a comedy premium for such early Morning Delight.

I packed a heavy suitcase full of Fluffy Bunny's possessions yesterday and then stood on the scales to check it wasn't going to be too heavy. Well of course it was too heavy, and I hoisted the massive bag round at a funny angle to be able to read the weight on the especially-huge-for-stupid-people LED display, and naturally wrenched some vital piece of machinery in my lower back. I am now even gimpier than a Very Gimpy Person. I hereby invite you back to my house for the International Lowing With Pain In the Bathroom When Trying To Get Out of The Shower championships. Be warned though, I will probably win.

Whoops, looks like I'm lapsing into bitchery now too....

My stifled sniggers are doing me the world of good now though, so your pain and humiliation are totally worth it! God, how I love you! Especially in the morning!

Gobsmacked love & schoolgirl giggle kisses,



Dearest Mrs Chabal,

Hmmmm. I wonder if it is in fact your dear hirsute husband in the above picture. The forehead looks a little too smooth and girlified for it to be darling Seb to me. Also, the tattoo artist in your ad seems to have an extensive and authentic tattoo covering his right shoulder which, as you can see in the photo below, Seb doesn't appear to have.

He doesn't appear to have one in this picture either, possibly the most famous of all Chabal photos, in which he handles his daughter, Lily Rose, like a rugby ball- all menacingly yet with a loving father's touch:

(I do love the sensationalist headline accompanying this photo in The Sun, French Monster EATS Babies!) The tattoo is not in this one:

Or in this one.

Oh wait, that's his lovely, muscular left shoulder. I suppose that would render the above photograph of two shirtless rugby players completely gratuitous. Silly me.

Here's a question for you. Why doesn't dearest Seb have any chest hair? I find that very disappointing. His full, manly beard promises a gorgeous, well-formed hairy chest. Ripped off, much?

But finally, I found this photo of your fantasy man and my loins went all a-flutter:

It seems that under that hairy, neanderthal, baby-eating facade of rugby-god-hotness, lies the heart of a public school boy yearning to be corrupted. Just the way I like 'em. *licks lips*

It seems I have forgotten the purpose of this missive entirely. Actually, I've come over a little queer (that's what he said) and feel the need to lie down. Exsqueeze me for now my dear.

With, "That's so totally NOT Sebastien Chabal being all homo-erotic in that tattoo ad but how I wish it was!" love and quisses,


Sunday, June 15, 2008

Seb And I Have Made Up and Are Together Again!

Dearest Sunday Diva,

When son and I were in his fave sports shop in Paris yesterday, a huge advertising poster for the soccer (Euro 2008) caught my eye.

I said out loud "My God! that's Sebastien Chabal dressed up as a tattoo artist and he's tattooing the Italian flag onto the chest of a probably famous sportsman whose name I can't think of at the moment..." It is all kinds of weird....

Please, please go here immediately and study the pic carefully. That noble brow, that God-like nose and handsome profile: it's all Seb, isn't it?

But what the fuck is he doing in such a surreal advertisement?!! My brians feel quite addled.

Suitcase contents planning project is progressing quite well and I will probably able to sleep satisfactorily tonight!

Lurvey love and jetset kisses,


Saturday Sext Msg to Ms. Mac

Darls! How is your Domestic Goddessery progressing today?

I haven't been near the 'puter nearly enough lately. Am hoping French Hub will take the chilllun to Mémée for the day tomorrow so that I can start my over-meticulous and seriously anal-retentive, suitcase contents planning session!

Son and I on train to Paris for his birthday treat: sportswear retail therapy and lunch at The Lovely Aimee's salon de thé.

Son thinks he will surprise her, but she will surprise him with chocolate cake and ice-cream!

Tasty kisses,


Thursday, June 12, 2008

Dear Staff Meeting Siren,

I have nothing, I mean nothing, to say. Instead here are a couple of oldies but goodies.

What's pink and hard in the morning?
The Financial Times crossword.

What's pink and wrinkly and hangs out your grandpa's underpants?
Your grandma!

And I know I've blogged this before but it's really my favourite joke, of all time:

A pirate walks into a bar with a steering wheel down his trousers. The barman says, "Why do you have a steering wheel down your trousers?" The pirate says, "Garr! It's driving me nuts!"

Silly love and quisses,


Throbbing Thursday

Dearest Naughty Football Player Groupie,

While you were busy looking up football players' shorts yesterday, I was entertaining three extremely charming clients from overseas. One Swiss, one Kiwi and one Aussie! There must be a joke in there...

We took them to dinner in my quaint little village and I foolishly indulged in what seemed like a sensible meal: a small amount of foie gras, white fish in creamy sauce, fresh fruit and only one glass of wine. But I went to bed very late indeed and spent the entire night tossing, turning and listening to my digestion. Am feeling extremely seedy today. As seedy as a whole field of seedy grasses in fact.

And as we have a staff meeting all morning, I'll not be able to thrill you with any details or juicy goss.

So just sit quietly with your hands on the desk until I'm back.

Love and heartburn kisses,



Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Gone Fishin'

Dearest Love,

I have not, in fact, gone fishin'. Today I have gone into town to have a gawp at the giant footballers in the Zürich Hauptbahnhof. There I hope to capture the essence of the buzz of Euro 2008 with my camera and perhaps meet up with a blogger friend before heading to another date with the other love of my life, Mr Mac.

Only two weeks until NZ? Where did all that planning time go? I have only two weeks to prepare myself for a whole month of no Antipo. I don't know why you insist on doing this to me every two years. Sob, sigh, family.... blah blah blah. Oh well, I'll get over it. And no doubt, far sooner than I should.

I went on a Mexican Cooking Course last night. I have chilli stuck under my thumb nails and it burns!

Burny love and chilli quisses,



Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Flubby Tuesday


I'm as groggy as all fuck, due to tossing and turning all night (still practicing the dance steps in my mind!!), and succumbing to half a sleeping pill at 3h30 this mornin'.

Do not, repeat, do not expect anything lucid from my keyboard until the drugs have worn off.

Love you heaps and heaps and wish you were here with your lovely shoulder for me to rest my weary head on. Am not depressed but weirdly emotional, due to NZ departure rushing up at me at the speed of sound.

Two weeks from today I'll be exploring Hong Kong with two kids, jet lag and retail therapy fever... Unbelievable!

Spaced out love and zombie kisses,



Monday, June 09, 2008

A Star Is Born (AGAIN! - I say that every year, don't I? Tell me if it's getting old hat)

Dearest Darls,

You are quite brilliantly litty and witerate, even in the throes of a vile hangover. (Who the hell invented hangovers anyway? I think the culprit should be hung, drawn and quartered at dawn. With bells on.)

Needless to say, I am exhausted today, hot and sweaty from the humid weather and suffering severe anti-climaxitis. Not in a sexual way, but in a "God, I love being on stage in front of 400 people, wearing heavy make-up and fun costumes, please don't ever let the glory end" kind of, sort of way.

The ballet (and modern jazz) recital was a ROARING success! The crowd loved us! Fellow forty-somethings told me I looked radiant! I only fluffed a few tiny steps, and the adoring fans apparently didn't notice, in all the flurry of costumes and my seven co-dancers, crammed together on a rather small stage.

At the end of both performances, a microphone was thrust into my hand and I was asked to do a farewell and thank you speech, as our President had lost her voice. I started with shaking knees and sweaty brow, but very quickly grew to love the attention (astonishing! I know!) and, after making the requisite list of thanks to sponsors, helpers, lighting technician, Chief Seamstress, local dignitaries, etc. etc., I simply could not resist throwing in a few jokes and improvised a short stand-up comedy routine.

Eventually the President and Treasurer were summoned to forcibly unprise my fingers from the mike and remove me bodily from the stage. I didn't leave without a fight. You would have been SO proud.

There will be a professional DVD of the whole event. Let's hope someone in my entourage will be clever enough to cut and paste my fancy bits into my blog. You know I can't be trusted with such a task. I'll be at it with scissors and sticky-tape.

Don't expect any downloading of photos to take place tonight. I'll be getting drunk on Champomy to celebrate my son's 14th birthday. Send me your hangover remedies asap.

Sequinned love and hairsprayed kisses,



P.S. I am not too tired however, to have fallen in love with you all over again in your pretty frock, and also with Mr. Mac in his Dudelsack. I have broken up with that writer chappie, and am sheepishly returning to your fond embrace.

Sunday, June 08, 2008

Weekend Round-Up

Dearest Beauteous Ballerina,

Despite the mention of a fluffy kitten, I did admire your poetic description of the scene that touched your artist's soul. I especially enjoyed your use of the word blowsy. I shall endeavour to use that word more in everyday conversation.

I do worry that you are wearing yourself out before your big trip home to NZ with all this ballet malarkey but I also know that you thrive on the buzz of excitement and anticipation that comes with a big event. Even if I do not figure into the plans. Or the tutus. We both know, I have no figure for a tutu.

In Chateau Mac news, on Friday, Mr Mac took me shopping for a new dress to wear Switzerland's Event of the Year. I am pleased to be able to direct you to see it here. Isn't it lovely? Before I found "the dress", I had bought what I thought was the only dress in Switzerland I'd be able to fit into. It was quite vile but I thought I'd be able to tussi it up with some sprakly baubles and the like and make it presentable. Imagine my delight when I came across this little beauty later and it fitted me! Ooooh, I was so excited I felt like an eight year old in a bridesmaid's dress. Mr Mac also treated me to the most extravagant and sexy pair of strappy sandals which went with the dress perfectly.

We also had to find Mr Mac something to wear. We had hoped for good weather and so were on the search for some summer, lighter-coloured trousers. Bloody hell! All the summer trousers for men at the moment seem to be flat fronted which is odd in that every single pair Mr Mac tried on showed off his Dudelsack, if you know what I mean. While I am not so much the fan of being able to see the wares in the shop window- again, if you know what I mean- he bought himself some new summer trousers and a few new summer shirts. Sadly, the weather let us down and he ended up wearing a pair of black trousers to the wedding instead. But he still looked very smart and his Dudlesack wasn't quite so prominent.

Yesterday evening I attended the party and had such a good time that I have spent most of today writhing around the bed a sweaty mass of hangoverey vomitousness. Lovely. What happened to the day when we could drink all night and still get up early in the morning for work?

Oh dear.

And just finally, here's a quick (completely unPC) joke to expand further on an earlier naughty post:

An Eskimo goes to Australia for a holiday. His camper van breaks down and he takes it to the mechanic. The mechanic tells him he'll have a look at it and to come back in an hour. The Eskimo, unaccustomed to the Aussie heat treats himself to a few ice creams while he waits. Back at the garage, the mechanic sees the Eskimo coming towards him. "It looks like you've blown a seal, mate!" the mechanic tells him.

"Nah," says the Eskimo, wiping his chin, "I've just been eating an ice cream." Boom boom.

With hangoverey love and never-again quisses,


Friday, June 06, 2008

Dearest Ms. Mac, my Number One Fan,

So, à propos of nothing: yesterday I saw a tiny, fluffy, white kitten running along the footpath underneath a massive, voluptuous, overhanging bank of blowsy, pale pink roses atop a garden wall. It was a beautiful, and rather unusual sight. A fleeting glimpse, a picture postcard moment, fit for a Hallmark card and it touched my artist’s soul.

Of course I know that you prefer your fluffy kittens nicely browned on the spit, with the skin extra crispy, and served with Thai Sweet Chilli sauce. But even so. I simply felt compelled to share that moment with you. I can’t explain it. So sue me, Bitch.

Now, here are the statistics from Wednesday’s fraught Dress Rehearsal of the ballet school gala:

- shrieking, over-excited prima donnas running round the stuffy, echoing theatre for six hours straight: 141

- costumes hastily sewn by myself and the Chief Seamstress while the little ones danced: 1 kajillion

- number of helpful mothers who spontaneously got off their arses and offered to help in the sewing on of buttons, epaulettes, apron strings, etc.: ZERO

- number of helpful mothers who were cajoled and pleaded with by myself to help sew on buttons etc.: 3

- mistakes made by the Sound Engineer in the order of the music: 42

- Chief Seamstress’ fingers slashed to ribbons by accident with sewing machine: 1

- drops of Chief Seamstress’ blood cleaned off floor and sewing machine: 27 (none on the costumes, thank the Lawd)

- dancers' left knees swollen to the size of a grapefruit and the colour of an uglifruit, caused by endless repetition of graceful, swivelling movement in a kneeling position: 1 (mine)

- foul and evil curse words uttered by ballet teacher at every single dancer’s ineptitude and lack of synchronisation: 728 BAZILLION

- migraine remedies consumed by Yours Truly at bedtime: 1 (but it was a biggie)

- level of my emotions as measured on the Cool-Calm-o-meter: RED ALERT

Achey-boned love and cracked-voice kisses,

Dame Margot Fonteyn


Thursday, June 05, 2008

Another Boob Story Just To Keep Up The Naughtiness Quota

Did I ever tell you about the time that Mr Mac and I went to have Teppanyaki dinner in Melbourne? Our dear friend Jeni took us out for a special treat to a restaurant in the Melbourne suburb of Prahran (pronounced in Melbourne drawl as Puh-ranne. Oh those flat, flat vowels.) Anyway, we sat down at our reserved table and our Asian chef came and introduced himself. He was a bit of showman and made us laugh all night, his main joke being that he was only moonlighting in the teppanyaki resto, his normal job was working in his Greek father's kebab shop, two doors down.

As you may or may not know, a (Western) teppanyaki meal requires a bit of audience participation. About halfway through the meal, during the fried rice course, our chef started to throw rice at us to be caught not in our bowls but in our mouths. Jeni managed to catch some in her mouth without making too much of a mess. Mr Mac managed the same. I didn't. When the rice came my way I shrieked and made a fool of myself as the rice splattered all over my face, most of it landing in my more-than-ample cleavage. I fished what I could out and enjoyed the rest of the meal.

As the chef was cleaning the grill and saying his goodnights to us at the end, I could still feel rice sticking to my bosoms. I tried to discreetly remove the few remaining and offending grains but our chef caught me.

"Have you still got rice in there?" he asked very loudly, clicking his chopsticks in my direction and bringing the entire restaurant's attention to my rice predicament. "Want me to get it our for you?" He sized up my décolletage; "I'm trained in search and rescue!" he exclaimed and the whole restaurant laughed while I blushed like a virgin on her wedding night.

*Yawns* Sorry, what was that?

Errr, I mean, no, of course you're not becoming a ballet bore! You could never be boring and I mean that with all of my being! You silly soulie sausage. I need to know all about your ballet antics so I can vicariously live the life of a prima ballerina! I simply cannot wait to see all the photos of the extravaganza in time. What? I'm being sincere.

I know it's terribly cruel and a complete betrayal of the sisterhood to mock a fellow blogger so mercilessly but what can I say? She totally asks for it. Every time.

I gained 2 friggin' kgs this week and I swear, I swear I don't know how. I even ate a salad when I went to Burger King for Ewan's birthday so I could compensate for chocolate birthday cake first. FFS! I should have eaten the chips and burger after all. Bastard! This week I am being very good and only eating cherry tomatoes. I expect, by the end of the week, to be a cherry tomato version of Violet Beauregarde. Tres attractive, I think you'll agree.

I was so pleased to receive your photo by MMS this morning. Please, please tell me that you're also able to receive photos on your mobile telephonic apparatus. I have an extremely important social engagement this weekend (some might say, the event of the year) for which I need to go dress-shopping tomorrow. Perhaps I might try some on, photograph myself in them and send it to you for your opinion? Perhaps I might indeed.

Am kind of, sort of, watching horrible British chat show where they take people from socio-economically deprived communities and exploit them by asking them to air their dirty laundry on national tv. It's awful. I will have to save my soul and switch it off.

Mr Mac is in Abu Dhabi. How ridiculous.

With enthralled-still-with-ballet love and quisses,


Dearest Soulie and Fellow Queen of Bitchery,

You are very naughty indeed to mock a fellow blogger in your private email to me this morning. But have no fear, I am indeed the Soul of Discretion, and would never breathe a word to anybody about a certain, easily identifiable, one-armed, spectacularly humourless blogger from Timbuktu, who - the poor thing - has suffered the dreadfully painful removal of her funny bone, and unwittingly provides us with hours of mirth and exchanges of catty remarks. She even provoked my very first criticism of a sister blogger, and you were so proud of me! No my Dear, your secret is safe with me.

So, I was totally incommunicado yesterday, locked inside a sweaty theatre all day, with hundreds of hysterical and overexcited miniature prima donnas and stage mothers, for the Big, Important Dress Rehearsal of the – wait a minute! I’m not becoming a Bloody Ballet Bore, am I? You would tell me if my one-track blogging has you stifling yawns, wouldn’t you?

Yours, in fear and trembling,



Tuesday, June 03, 2008

Turgid Tuesday

Dearest Ms. Mac, whom I want to be just like when I grow up, only with a stronger bladder ,

As you know, my horrendous neglect of you is due to my new career as a top fashion designer. You can see pictorial proof of my talents on the other blog.

The ballet school recital is drawing near, and my life is a frenzy of sewing costumes, rehearsing dances, sweating profusely (but delicately) and worrying obsessively. My children have ceased to exist. The birds no longer impinge upon my consciousness, and their uncleaned cages are graced with teetering piles of little droppings. You would almost certainly catch typhoid if you ate in my kitchen.

Last night I had to take some refreshments (cold beers and home-made pizza) to the chaps who were setting up the theatre and stage with heavy lighting equipment, sound system and seating for 300. They were all young, virile and handsome. It’s a tough life! I hung around for a while, simpering, and trying not to get in their way as they manfully wrestled long, iron, pole thingies and vast, boxy, amp thingies into place. But sadly it was a long job, and I was needed back at my sewing machine before they had finished, so I was not able to sup with them. I will go back tonight to reclaim my (hopefully) empty Tupperware, not a little sadly.

But! Life must go on, and I trust you will entertain our readers with loving (and naughty) anecdotes while I am being all busy and important.

Frazzled love & kisses,



Monday, June 02, 2008

RIP Antipo

Dearest Ms. Mac,

Your post below is so very naughty, that I have died and gone to heaven.

Ghostly love and ethereal kisses,



More Naughtiness Than A Monday Morning Can Handle

Dearest Antipo,

This morning, in addition to giggling at the word ring, I also appear to find the word blow very sniggersome indeed. It all started when I read somewhere that you'd have to blow the dust off an old book and suddenly I was reminded that the word blow can be very, very naughty.

I was on a bus once and overheard two young bucks being very discourteous about their weekend conquests. One young buck was telling the other about a fair maiden he'd bedded the night before while the other eagerly asked his friend about his sexual achievements with her, almost as though he was ticking them off on a sexual check sheet. I won't tell you, for fear of being arrested for indecency, everything he asked but one of the delicate questions he was desperate to know the answer to was, "Didya blow on 'er tits?"

As I listened, I wondered, "Blow on her tits? Like, blow, on her tits? What's so awesome about blowing on her tits?" I pictured a gentle tickling of breath running across a young lady's nipples and while I can imagine it would be very sensual an experience for her, I could not imagine why these two young fellow-me-lads would consider it worth marking off on the list of lurve.

And then it came to me and somehow I managed to not blurt, "Oh! Blow! You mean blow on her tits!" out loud. I did not manage to suppress the urge to giggle like a schoolgirl though and my shoulders shook from mirth until the bus pulled in at my stop.

And so it has been this morning that when I read the word blow, my mind plunges to the depths of depravity and I snigger and snort like a thirteen year old in her first sex education lesson. May the week continue thusly.

With naughty love and depraved quisses,