Sunday, 10 October 2010

Fantasy shopping and Unfantasy Knickers

A Vi Spring mattress (£2,500).

I have read much about Vi Spring mattresses. I have read that they are like sleeping on heavenly clouds. Madam Noir was mattress shopping today. She seems to get through a lot of mattresses, does Madam Noir. I think it's a lesbian thing. Maybe the nature of lezza sex means that they require more rebound and bounce in a mattress. Come to think of it, Madam Noir does always have problems with her knee joints too. I am sure all these things are related somehow. I just can't figure out how. I could, of course, consult the oracle of lezzas: Rochester, he probably has a poem on this very subject. I have the perfect title for such a poem: To Her Coy Mattress.

I am a mere poverty stricken heterosexual. I have had the same mattress for 12 years. It has springs poking through. Thank the lord for the feather-bed on top. I flopped on a Vi Spring mattress in John Lewis today. What a blissful revelation! It was as cushiony and voluptuous as Joan Holloway in cashmere. I am in love.

McFireman tells me he has recently spent £1300 on a new Tempura mattress. That confounded me. I know those Scots are besotted with all things deep fried - but I wouldn't fancy sleeping on a bed of battered prawns. (It turned out to be a typo, he meant a Tempur mattress.)

John Lennon 'Imagine' Decor
I will get the house decorated next summer. I am craving a 'white' look: walls virginal white and a natural sisal or coir carpet. I imagined this would be cheap, but apparently green utility chic comes at £42 per square metre. £42 per metre for something that is as rough as a swarthy rogue's cheek and is little more than potato sacking. I blame the Lib Dems (although, I am not sure why). Maybe if Rochester saves me his shaving clippings (I assume he now has to shave, given his new executive role) then by June I will have sufficient for a stair runner.

An embarrassing problem . . .

This is my lurcher boy Cyril. Isn't he sweet? Don't be fooled by his Walt Disney charm. It masks a dark and sordid secret. Cyril has a fetish. An underwear fetish. This twatting dog is costing me a fortune. Allow me to explain.

For some months now I have been finding knickers that have been severed at the gusset (I do apologise for having to refer to the 'G' spot in this usually chaste and PG rated blog). For a while I suspected I had a fault in my washing machine. Then I began to discover bras with their straps dissected. The cutting was always neat and clean. Could it be a poltergeist? The mystery was solved one day whilst I was reading in bed, I was distracted by the sound of contented gnawing. It was Cyril, lying on the rug next to my bed, happily munching his way through a pair of my best knickers. Since then the hound has become utterly obsessed with my undergarments. He empties laundry bins, searches amongst discarded outfits on chairs. He is averaging one pair of knickers per day. I simply cannot afford a dog with a lingerie habit (I think crystal meth would be cheaper). Today I had to re-stock on knickers AGAIN in M&S. However, as pay day has long since passed I was forced to buy the cheapest. It sickened me to think of how many beloved silken pairs of pants that mutt has ravaged, and there was me at the 'Outstanding Value' section of M&S, being forced to buy from the 4 pairs for £5 range.

Can anyone help? Can anyone please explain why my dog is a knicker chewer? Is there some therapy I can tap into? A Paul McKenna tape I can play him while he sleeps, perhaps?

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