Sunday, 7 November 2010

Venetian Binds

Rochester's Return

My prediction was indeed correct. The day after my last blog entry I was inundated with texts from Rochester, as if nothing was wrong. I have no idea what is going on in his head, but, he does make me smile.

He sent me a picture of himself, wearing one of his new, Peg millionaire black suits and sunglasses. Sunglasses. Worn on a dank November night.

'I look like the dog's bollocks.' he modestly boasted.

Hmmmm. Yes. Indeed. The Reservoir Dogs bollocks.

'I am despondent. My shoe maker has just been deported.' He wailed on Monday.

I am not sure I can get used to this new, slick, BMW driving capitalist Rochester. As an antidote to his brash free-market autocrat values I managed to shoe-horn a bit of socialist propaganda into the Year 2/3 curriculum this week. We have been studying the North East's coal-mining heritage this term. This week we looked at the miners' strike of 1984 and re-enacted Durham Big Meeting. I must say, I felt rather proud of indoctrinating my junior anarchists into making speeches about socialism at our 'Big Meeting' on Friday. Watch out, Rochester, I warned. Next week we are moving on to direct action: slashing the tyres of BMWs.

Venetian Binds

Madam Noir and I were yet again discussing where hip, young(ish) lezzas go to meet each other. She let slip that her previous partner had used the website I consulted Rochester (lezza oracle) to see if he had heard of such a site. Then I logged on myself, I couldn't help it. I was intrigued. I had not been so excited since the launch of

You know, this is what I think of when I think of lesbians:

  • Middle-aged ladies on companionable walking holidays in Austria.
  • Cagoules and sturdy shoes.
  • Pudding basin, salt and pepper haircuts.
  • Scones in National Trust tearooms.
  • Rainy afternoons spent crocheting and reading Muriel Stark novels.
  • John Lennon glasses.
  • Lentil and mung bean bakes.
  • Subscriptions to Social Worker Weekly and Birkenstock Times.
You get the picture. When I think of lesbians I think of creatures as wholesome and sexless as Weetabix. At first I didn't get very far on You have to register, you see. Rochester was similarly frustrated.

'I wanted to take the free lezza tour, but they wouldn't let me.' He complained.

(Oh, how I love the image of Rochester on a lezza tour. To Austria, obviously. The lone male on a bus full of cagoule bedecked, rosy cheeked middle aged lezzas. Stopping in quaint hill-towns to admire medieval naves.)

I did not give up as easily as Rochester. I investigated at the site's registration page with my gimlet eye. I was utterly shocked. My image of Weetabix eating lesbian social workers was about to be smashed to smithereens. As part of the registration process ladies are asked to declare:

  • Their bust size
  • Their hair length (I do not refer to hair of the salt and pepper pudding bowl variety)
  • Their dress style (cagoules were not an option: leather, rubber and 'military' were).
  • Their sexual preferences. Now, to be honest, these choices were as impenetrable (no pun intended) as Swahili to me. The options being: passive/ versatile/ active.
  • What they are looking for - options including group sex.
DEAR GOD! I thought lesbians spent their evenings watching Countryfile and doing jigsaws.

Rochester had more to say.

'My friend's missus has just turned lezza. She now spends her evenings being fucked from behind with a strap-on. It's a terrible state of affairs.'

That befuddled my brain even more. Surely, in the name of Martina Naviratilova, she might as well have stuck with her husband. How does she know who is back there (male or female) in such moments?

'With regards to Madam Noir, I've told you, I can fix her.' Rochester had again claimed, earlier this week. That got me thinking. I had a plan. A GENIUS plan.

'Why don't you register on, Rochester. Offer your services as a saviour of lezzas. As a sort of lezza missionary. You could even write a blog about it. Or a new poetry anthology. It could be entitled 'Rochester's Missionary Position.'

He is mulling it over. I think he is interested. I think Rochester should do some charity work, to compensate for his rapacious and rampant capitalism. Rochester, healing the world through the Missionary Position. It seems right somehow. Anyway, I don't think I've ever heard such a perfect blog title, not since Madam Noir and I discussed what her new blog would be called. She wanted her blog to chronicle her search for Venetian love. The obvious title suggested itself: Looking for Love Through Venetian Blinds. Sadly, she didn't go for it.

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