I had a most unexpected email from Rochester the other day. I replied and told the rogue about my folk art purchase.
'I know you wanky ‘trendy Bristol’ types will sneer at such folksy art. No doubt on your mantlepiece you’ve got a used crack pipe, adorned with crime scene tape sat atop an empty Findus Crispy Pancakes packet, communicating the random cruelty of life in a godless universe. Oh, and a couple of hard boiled eggs in formaldehyde framed above your waterbed – representing the emotional castration of men in these gender-confused times. But, you can’t beat a good watercolour, Rochester. I ilke the blurryness of them, like tears on a love-letter.'
I am not sure what possessed the Swami of Stubble to get in touch. He was discussing lezzaism. Lezzas
'can't relax around cock, for some reason.' he proclaimed knowingly.
Madam Noir - would you like to comment on that?
My correspondence with McFireman is going well. So far he has managed not to be offended by anything I say. He thinks I am charming and witty. I have just told him of my last trip to Glasgow, and my sighting of the vampiric pimp Nick Cave in a hairnet.
McF. loves Mad Men and lusts after sexpot Joan. That is a promising sign. He is obviously rather fond of large breasts and bottoms.
I asked McF. whether firemen still rescue kittens from trees. Regretfully, he says not (although they do get asked). I find that very sad. I long to live in a world where firemen still rescue kittens from trees, where policemen help old ladies across the road and where kindly, white-haired doctors battle through the snowy dales at midnight to deliver rosy-faced babies to farmers' wives.