Writer's Blockage

Dear Dobson,

My creative juices appear to have stopped flowing.  I'm dry as a menopausal vagina and I blame one thing and one thing only for this arid state of affairs...  Contentment.

Now don't get me wrong, life is not all peaches and cream, of course there are many things I would change or improve given the opportunity or the finances, but in general I don't know if I've ever had it so good.

I am unsure as to whether this new state of Zen comes as a result of maturity, wisdom, awareness and generally being comfortable in my own skin or as a result of things having previously been so shit that anything is an improvement.  Having given it some thought, I believe it's the former.

Without going all hippy on your arse, I feel as if good is begetting good and it's fucking fabulous.  My recent application form has earnt me an interview, my jazz duo is now a quartet with an impending gig at a Central London venue and I have a man who thinks nothing of repairing my mangled runner's toenails...

I feel as if I can have whatever I want right now.  That concept scares me a little, but not enough to stop me asking.  Sacrificing some of my creative juice doesn't seem like such a bad trade off to me.

Frankie

Highs And Lows

Dear Dobson,

My week, in a nutshell.

Low Point:

Parenthood has been one of this week's crashing lows.  I've never rated myself much as a mother if I'm honest; I don't make my own houmous or anything, but I like to think I do a decent job and most importantly, my boys know they're loved.  Unfortunately oldest has entered what we have labelled 'The P Zone' - yes indeed, as his thirteenth birthday looms, Puberty arrives and the odious stench of testosterone hangs heavy in the air like ammonia.  All kinds of muscles are currently getting a good flexing.

He has behaved appallingly of late and I yearn for the days when a clip around the ear wasn't something that could land you in court.  If this is just the beginning of a catalogue of heinous pubescent behaviour then I'd like to terminate my contract here and now.

What do you mean I can't terminate my contract?

I suppose I simply attempt to muddle through the best I can, like many other parents have before me - except my own mother of course who did less than her best, but that's a whole other story I can't be arsed investing any energy in right now...


High Point:

The Love Train is stoked full of coal and is chugging along beautifully.  I don't know where it's destined to go, but being aboard it makes me very happy.  The Man is warm, wonderful and uncomplicated - I love having him in my life.


Any Other Business:

The application form has gone away.  The waiting game commences.  I shall know within three weeks or so if I'm up for interview.  Obviously they'd be mad not to take me.

I went to the cinema to see the new Star Trek film and found myself strangely drawn to Spock.  I never thought I'd use a Vulcan as stimulus for a wank.

I miss you and would like you to come back.

Frankie

Just Not Tony Hart - Please

Dear Dobson,

Since the Jimmy Savile story broke several months ago, I have been somewhat distressed by the long line of celebrity paedophiles, rapists and sex offenders that has continued to emerge.  It's like the televisual story of my youth is slowly being destroyed before my very eyes...

Yesterday's revelation that Tarby may be joining the ranks of Savile et al was yet another inappropriate slap in the face.  It would seem the concept of 'Variety' in the 70s meant exactly that.

As an homage to the continuing scandal, and with some assistance from The Man, I have come up with a list of top five tracks to mark the occasion:

Aaaaaaat 5...  'Clair' by Gilbert O'Sullivan

Aaaaaaat 4...  'Thank Heaven For Little Girls' from Gigi

Aaaaaaat 3...  'Sweet Sixteen' by Neil Sedaka

Aaaaaaat 2...  'Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon' by Neil Diamond

And at Number 1...  'Young Girl' by Gary Puckett and The Union Gap

Obviously Serge Gainsbourg gets a special mention for 'Lemon Incest', the duet which he sang with his then twelve year old daughter...  

Unfortunately I've little doubt that in the time it's taken me to write this, yet another celebrity's name will have been added to the ever increasing list.  I'm sure it will stop eventually, it has to, else there will be no-one left to out.

Happy Wednesday.

Frankie

Procrastination And Taramasalata

Dear Dobson,

Whilst you're up in court today, being one of twelve men good and true, I am at home sitting on my arse eating taramasalata and Turkish bread and mostly procrastinating like a bastard.

I am supposed to be filling in the application form for the next level of my course, but it's all way too demanding for a Tuesday.  They want to know things like 'Why?', 'How?', 'What?' and 'Do you have any mental health problems?'

As a result of the cursed application form, today's agenda has consisted of the following; I have carried out several menial housework tasks, been for a run, showered, Facebooked, logged my run, had a few games of Diamond Twister 2, drunk copious amounts of tea and managed to sandwich several wanks between all of the above.  I am now eating and blogging simultaneously - there is no end to my talents.

There is, of course, a deadline for the application - Tuesday 7th May - but that's ages away non?  After all it's still April and you know how I work better under pressure...  If my current modus operandi is anything to go by, I'm pretty sure there will be plenty more riveting posts for you to read before then.  I'll bet you can't wait.

Frankie

Wank: The Sequel

Dear Dobson,

I share your concerns about the general dip in our readership that tends to occur whenever we discuss lady matters that don't involve vaginas, anuses, vibrators or bodily fluids.

At the moment, the trouble for me is that I'm having way too much good sex to want to write about it.  Add to that the feelings I have for The Man and it does bring a certain reluctance to share the details of our lovemaking with all and sundry whether this is an anonymous blog or not.

When I was single and wanking was obsessively high on the agenda it was a very different state of affairs.  Nowadays masturbation is something I can take or leave, but that's not to say it doesn't happen.  As I mentioned before, Thatcher's funeral whipped me up into a veritable frenzy and sometimes when I watch James Martin on Saturday Kitchen that gives me the right horn.  Though I must admit my degree of wetness depends on how heavy he's looking, someone should tell him that wearing a black shirt isn't a magic cure-all.

Frankie

Wank

Frankie,

Just a tester.  Do more people read this blog when it has masturbation in it?  Sex sex sex, wank, vibrator.

I thought we had a more discerning audience than that...

Love ya.

Dobson, the biggest wanker of them all.

The Love Train. Toot. Toot.

Frankster,

Thatcher is dead?  When did this happen?  I loved her on 'I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here.'

Bugger.

Yes.  Love is a very nice distraction from blogging, or indeed anything ending in 'ing'.  Probably not shagging though, now I come to think of it.

I am pleased you are on The Love Train (See what I did there?  Seamless).  Tooting your horn and filling your hole with coal.  Bloody marvellous.

I do believe that Karma has arrived for you, and the changes that we predicted back in December seem to be coming to fruition.

For me, I'm a wee bit more in love with life, and myself again. It's been a long journey, but actually, I think I am an okay person.

Maybe we both decided that actually, we are both a bit cool, and deserve some of the good stuff.  I feel it enough to say it out loud too.

On a complete tangent, but sort of not, I have noticed a positive change in my dad.  The reason is simple.  The father that abandoned him over 60 years again has been found.  Obviously, he is no longer around, dying at 50 something in 1969.... but.... I think it gave him some closure.

No doubt there will be some family stuff that comes out, but he sounded so buoyant and happy, and making plans to go on some trips, live a bit.  I could hear it in his voice and it oozed over the phone.

C'mon Karma.  Keep doing the do!

Lub you.  Seriously.

Dobster

Love Is A Many Splendored Thing

Dear Dobson,

It seems we have both been distracted from bloggage for one reason or another.  Alas, I have not been dreamy-eyed about hall tables or doing up my house...  I have been riding the express train of love, travelling first-class, accompanied arm in arm by The Man.

Much can happen in a short space of time and as you know from previous confessions I was very aware that stirrings of a non-sexual nature were happening.  Those things called 'feelings' were manifesting themselves and as uncomfortable as they were making me, I sat with them.  I'm glad I did.

All areas of life are good.  The Karma Police have finally discovered where I'm living and decided that a little payback is due.  I'd say way overdue, but beggars can't be choosers - or summat.  Even the weather is warming up, about cunting time though, it is the middle of April...

The Man is on his way round now so I must love you and leave you.  Would it be wrong to crack a quick one off whilst watching Thatcher's funeral?

Frankie

Faffery

Dear Frankie,

Bunny? Was that a friend of yours from private school?

I am generally faffing this year. Hence lack of bloggage.  I am mostly floating in a jetstream of 'Let's just see what happens-ness'.  I feel this is the best course of action.  This will, of course, need to be revised at some point, but I feel a bit of a calm before the storm.

I have just come back from Scotland, where I normally feel a bit unsetttled and undecided about the future.  I have this time come back feeling like I was coming home more. I want to 'do my house up', get settled at work and buy a hall table.  That sort of thing.

I also have to train for this fecking 10k. Christ.

That's all the news that is fit to print. I started this blog in total peace. As per, everyone has now come in the room.

The other thing I am 'getting done' is an office in the back garden.

With a fucking padlock.

Lub you.

Dobson

Twattery

Dear Dobson,

As you’re aware, I’m not someone who likes to romanticise the business of parenthood.  I am quietly proud of my children, but I refuse to be drawn into playing 'Kid Top Trumps' in the playground with other parents whose own desperate insecurities force them to live their lives through the achievements of their offspring.

It’s a certain brand of parent that plays this particular game and their middle-class, wishy-washy, boundary-less school of parenting irritates the fuck out of me.  Just who are these people?  They have no personalities, they all need intensive therapy and they waste so much energy trying to present a ‘chilled’ and ‘relaxed’ front, when in reality they are obscenely uptight.  They maintain the demeanour of confused adolescents in forty-something year old bodies and hence, not knowing who they really are, they choose to define themselves through the often bizarrely named fruit of their loins.

I found myself at a swimming gala on Friday evening.  Middle Son was due to take part in a couple of races and I wanted to be there to support him, conversely, along with this desire was mild irritation that I’d lose a significant amount of my night sitting in a loud, humid environment with other parents.

On arrival I felt as if someone had amassed my worst nightmares and turned them into a caricature of the very parent I despise so much:

Rainbow-jumpered man was sitting at his child’s event with a fucking guitar…  He sat for at least three hours playing / strumming / tuning it, I don’t know which because thankfully I couldn’t hear over the roar of the crowd who were doing what they were actually there to do i.e. supporting their children.

All I could think was what a self-indulgent, self-absorbed cunt he was.  How embarrassing for little Balthazar or India that his / her father chose to upstage any swimming effort that he / she might make.  Even Oldest Son, who is autistic and allegedly has little sense of what is socially acceptable, asked me what the prick with the guitar was doing…  A proud moment for me.

I’m glad I’ve got that off my chest anyway.  Can you tell I haven't had relations with The Man for over 48 hours?  It could be a good night to resurrect Bunny™.

Frankie

The Big Thaw

Dear Dobson,

I cannot believe yet another respective birthday has been and gone.  I must confess I've been thinking a lot this evening about the passing of time - a classic symptom of getting older.  Unfortunately I've reached no earth shattering conclusions, other than time seems to be accelerating a little too quickly for my liking, especially the good stuff which seems to be gone in the blink of an eye.

And please don't interpret my ruminations as sad or maudlin, if anything, what I've said above makes me value the good stuff even more.

Could I have injected more clichés into the preceding paragraphs?

I must congratulate you on your purchase of 'Orgasm' blusher, I shall pay close attention to your flush when we next meet, but don't go overboard will you?  I imagine the Aunt Sally look would probably have an adverse effect...  Luckily, and without wanting to sound like I'm bragging, I have no need for such cosmetic indulgences at the moment.  My cheeks are aglow like two enormous Belisha Beacons and my Bunny™ lies redundant in the drawer underneath my bed; just for the record, there are many other reasons I think The Man is wonderful.  The Ice Queen never stood a chance in such company.

On that note, it's time for me to retire to the boudoir where I shall slip under the covers and inhale what remnants are left of the weekend spent with him.  Defrosted...

Night Dobson.

Frankie

PS.  Happy frickin' Anniversary, this is our fiftieth post.

Blusher

Dear Frankie,

Was awake at 5am this morning. (Too much birthday cake?) So I did what anyone just into her 45th year would do (my favourite record speed by the way) - I bought a blusher online.

Clearly there are a multitude of things I need - a car that works, a hall carpet that is not threadbare, a cooker that works. Anyway. Some bird in the Guardian would exclaim 'It's the Nars blusher' whenever she bumped into a friend, so used was she to being asked what was different about her.

Apparently "it makes every woman look better, giving all skintones a sexy flush of peachy pink'.

And the name dear reader, of said blusher range? Orgasm.

Basically if you look like you have had a good seeing to, people think you look great.

Blusher = £21.

Sex = Sod all.

I'm in the wrong business.

Read that as you will.

Lub you.

Dobson x

In Brief

Dear Dobson,

I loved your card idea and although I possess the malice, I lack the creative skills...

Therefore I opted for a missive brandishing this message on the front:

"Mum! You're Almost As Amazing As Me!"

That should do the passive / aggressive trick.

Frankie

Ghosts

Dearest Frankie,

Lovely to be back.  Motherhood and workeyhood have indeed got in the way, but like a 1990s girlband, I've re-grouped, am back in the lycra and raring to go.

I suggest you make a Mother's Day card for said person. Make it look like a ransom note but then decorate it with bunnies, roses and kittens and it'll confuse the fuck out of her.  See if you can find the 'bunny ears' you described earlier and pop them in for good measure. It'll be like getting a card from Michael Madsden AND Blue Peter.  Worth a thought...

I don't believe in ghosts, but I've seen a lot of the feckers in the last month.  Coming back from the dead like the Sixth Sense.  Or Scooby Doo.

It was doable on Facebook. You didn't have to actually see them, and sometimes it was rather lovely to be reunited with a few.

But in person...

So. What do you do when someone you haven't seen for years is in the room with you? Next to you?  Then you see them again. By accident.  Third time lucky? Who knows? They may disappear once more.

But do you know what. I ain't spooked. In fact. It's ok. It's ok to see people that I may have been fearful of in the past (not good enough / thin enough / happy enough).  I'm not spooked because, as Cheryl says "I'm worth it".  Take me or leave me. Seriously. Enough pussyfooting around. (I've put that in for the dirty readers).

I'm kinda enjoying work too - feeling more in control, more worthy, more like me. That's good. I want to be able to move on from there, when I want to, on my terms.  Sod 'em.

Right. That's enough from the Iron Curtain.

Love you more,

Dobson

PS.  When you see that Justin Timberlake, tell him he left his Oyster Card here last time.

Mommie Dearest

Dear Dobson,

Given your absence I can only postulate that things like work, young children and life in general are all demanding your time – either that or you’ve buggered off to the Maldives for three weeks and kept it from me.  I miss you when you’re not here, and you know how much I hate to talk about myself…

I have decided that tomorrow I will buy a Mother’s Day card for the person in question; always a difficult task for a misomater.  Do I assuage my own feelings of guilt by getting her the prettiest card containing the most genuine message, or do I adopt an insouciant attitude towards the whole thing with a cheap and meaningless token gesture?  Decisions, decisions…

Matricidal fantasies aside, I currently have very little to gripe about.  Your previous advice has been heeded and I am doing my utmost to enjoy whatever time I am able to share with The Man.  I find his company fulfilling in many different ways.  I like him – a lot.

I never thought I’d see the day when Justin Timberlake’s standing in my wank bank was rescinded, but given current levels of gratification his position is now somewhat redundant.  When I mailed him to tell him so he took it badly, but that’s Aquarian ego for you…  He’ll get over me.

Frankie

Señorita

Dear Dobson,

Have I told you lately that I love you?

Despite having accumulated many friends over the years, I have always believed you are the one who knows me best.  You may view this as a blessing or a curse, but from my perspective I definitely see it as the former.  If you were within arms’ reach right now, I would grab you in a headlock and reiterate how much ‘I love you, you little fecker’.  

Admittedly, you might shy away from such overt physicality given that I am full of Penis Grigio and spicy food.  I’m also having a Justin Timberlake half-hour on YouTube (an homage to your previous blog title), so there are many ways this scenario could play out...

‘Normal’ life has resumed and, as a result of this, I am currently seeking solace in the fact that Justin is going to “have me naked by the end of this song...”  My boys have returned home and my time with The Man is over until next week at the earliest.  It’s difficult to postpone desire; not only the lust driven brand of desire, but also the kind that leaves you wanting more time to simply be with the person in question, even if you’re only lying au naturel discussing 1970s TV theme tunes.

In part, I suppose sating those lust driven yearnings is where a vibrator comes in handy, though I will always maintain there's nothing like the real thing baby...

In the five years since splitting with my charming ex-husband I have managed to work my way through two vibrators.  My third is serving me well.  The first one frustratingly died on me mid-session, never to be revived despite spending a fortune on new batteries...  RIP #1.  The second death was a much more distressing affair.  I had settled down for a mid-afternoon wank and all was going well until I felt an obvious change in sensation; I paused and looked down between my legs where I spied two small pieces of pink ‘flesh’ lying on the bed sheets.  My initial and rather anguished thought was that my labia had fallen off, luckily however, what was actually lying on the bed were the two pink ‘bunny ears’ and not bits of me...  RIP #2.

I think it’s time to go and commend #3 for a job well done, alongside which, Justin’s going to “give me his heat”.  I look forward to that.

Frankie

I'm Bringing Sexy Back

Dear Frankie

I'm going to layer this blog like a Mary Berry Cake, or probably more like a Findus Lasagne.

First layer. Your enjoyment of your relationship. To most, this is a good thing. A wee gift from The Gods. A big 'hurrah' for you. A lucky man.

I know that that is not how you roll. Most of the time. I have learned that you may be searching for the self-destruct button.

You must not do this.

You must instead go back and re-read some of your blogs. Think about the negatives of not feeling this way. Also, don't read about couples on Facebook. We all know they are bastards. That Valentine's stuff gives me the dry boak.  What a waste of money and time. And mostly it's from people who can only function when told to, or show love through a shit teddy, cheap chocolate and a crappy card.  When the fuck did they gig to a packed house in town, or run a marathon? They don't do, that's why they pepper Facebook with that stuff.

Enjoy it all.  A fucking bus might mow you down tomorrow or some other clichéd death.  I am very, very happy for you.

Probably best to keep wanking though or we may lose our fan.

Which leads me nicely unto layer two.

Sexy.

I have been told that I am the fall guy to your dirty stuff on the blog, so I am going to sex this puppy up.  Here goes.

Ooohhh, that boiler is leaking. Dirty git. Better get a plumber out, eh?  Yeah, big old plumber. With tools.  Ohhh. When's he coming? Get it? Coming. Cumming. See what I did there.  What do you mean he's cancelled? But I swapped stuff at work to get back early and picked up the kids for this. I can't believe this.

Oh wait.  Spoiled that slightly.  Will try again.

Ooooohhh,  that's right, oooh yeah, oh hang on, my bingo wing is trapped, move, fucking move, ahhhh, ok, I'm fine, ooh right, so, hang on, that's the baby crying, get up, no its your turn...

Bollocks.

Layer three.

I can't write sexy.

I like 'sexy' and I am not a prude. Rude stuff makes me laugh, I am unshockable.

But dear reader I am unable to put it down on paper.  I guess it's a part of my life I like to keep private, even though I can voyeur with the best of them.  Everything else about me is laid bare, in my job, on here, in counselling, in my limited stand-up stuff.

But you must be brave and soldier on.  Sex it up for me.  Except I know that it ain't sexing up. It's actually you.  And that's what makes you so darn fab.

Dobbers. x

Consternation

Dear Dobson,

It happened last night and it has terrified me. 

As you are aware, my dear friend, there is a certain someone I have been spending a significant amount of time with.  Yesterday evening he took me out for dinner.  He’s the kind of man who opens doors for you and helps you with your coat even though you're not a septuagenarian.  He is thoughtful, attentive, has a wickedly dry sense of humour and is easy going.

Post-dinner, whilst lying wrapped in my lover’s arms I felt a stirring which was nothing to do with sex or fucking.  It was a warm, hormonal surge which prompted me to press myself further into him, he responded by tightening his well-defined arms around me.

Each time I see him, the fondness I feel for him intensifies a little.  We’re not talking the ‘L’ word but these old familiar feelings – the ones which have led to so much hurt in the past – are certainly making their uncomfortable presence felt.

I am deeply concerned that my cynical writing style will be affected by the presence of emotions and the like.  Help me Dobson, you’re my only hope... 

Frankie

PS.  Having monopolised our blog for so long, I now refuse to write any more until you have made an entry.  Fnar.

Happy Valentine's Day

Dear Dobson,

Yes, it’s Valentine’s Day…  Something I had stealthily managed to avoid until early this evening when I made the fatal error of logging onto The Book of Face.  It was rammed with statuses (statusi?) and pictures of what all the joyous couples out there have been up to.  I’m glad they’re all so happy and that none of their vile display is a desperate ploy to convince their singleton friends, as well as themselves, that life as part of a couple is SO much more fun!

Cunts.

As a result I had to log off and have just spent an hour intermittently wanking whilst watching Crimewatch.  This led to me contemplating that perhaps my postman had been robbed or assaulted today and that he did, in fact, have a full sack of Valentine’s paraphernalia for me.  I shall never know.

Still, it is almost tomorrow when all those couples will be able to revert to quietly loathing each other once more.

Frankie

The Arrival Of Apathy

Dear Dobson,

I am sure you could look back on your many years of teaching and nothing would come close to the huge surge of pride you, no doubt, felt on handing out green pens to your class for self-evaluation...  I get the feeling green wax crayons might have been more appropriate?

The thaw of the Ice Queen is changeable given the cold north easterly winds we are currently tolerating.  I remain unsure as to the best course of action; ‘To feel or not to feel?  That is the question.’  Part of me knows from previous experience that if you open up and allow someone in, it can be a wonderfully enriching and fulfilling adventure.  Conversely, past endeavours have also taught me that the business of feeling can leave you exposed to hurt and heartbreak.  I will think on’t – and perhaps witness the joyful resurrection of the '4am Terror Club' in the process.

On a shallower note – the place where I am happiest – I am relieved to have found the perfect frock for my next gig.  A veritable gift of a dress; it flatters, it’s stylish, it reeks of jazz and I will be able to wear my pearl necklace with it, which will certainly bring a smile to my face.

It’s only just 10 o’clock and I’m already thinking of retiring to the boudoir for some literature and light masturbation.  There are worse ways to spend a Tuesday evening.

Bonne chance with the inspection tomorrow.  Tell them I think they’re cunts and you’ll go far.

Frankie

Be Still My Throbbing Hand

Dear F,

I do enjoy the drivel so worry ye not. I too have a sore hand, but from marking.  Marking, marking, always marking.  I knew it was the beginning of the end when I was made to stand at the doorway of a drama room and give out green pens for self-evaluation...

How is the thaw going doll?  At time of blogging I know you have a gig tonight. And next week. And a visitor from afar. And a potential bloke. And an unresolved musician issue. Plus course. I am impressed with the magnitude of it all...

Can't wait to see you. I may reblog tonight. Supposed to be looking after Mia and marking and getting ready for inspection on Wed. Oh and a gig. FFS.

Big love.

Dobson

Matters Of The H***t

Dear Dobson,

Given your absence I’ve unilaterally decided to fill our sacred space with the sound of my own voice.  I can hear you breathe a sigh of relief along with our avid readership.

I was planning on sleeping, but even after a very satisfying DP wank, slumber isn’t coming easily.  To add insult to injury I’m listening to Ben Howard – obviously my mind isn’t functioning too well this evening.

It would seem there’s a whiff of spring in the air and it’s not only the climate that’s thawing out.  The Ice Queen is melting and she’s not very happy about it.  Life always feels much easier when things like emotions and feelings are kept to a bare minimum or shared exclusively with those you’re secure with.

What’s fairly annoying is when someone you’ve not even known for that long, comes along and inadvertently finds their way into those frickin’ emotions and feelings...  Imagine for a moment, if you will, that I have a heart; a big, beating, passionate heart.  Imagine, again, this heart is in the middle of a maze and there’s a chap who’s just entered said maze.  At the moment he’s on the periphery, which is relatively safe yet provokes some fear and tension because he’s slowly going to make his way to the centre - nothing surer.  When he reaches that ‘big, beating, passionate heart’ at the core of the maze he’s going to pull out a big feckin’ carving knife and do some serious damage – or something.  Isn’t that how it goes?

Fuck it.  I need a post-orgasmic pee…

Come back soon.  Who knows how much longer folks will be able to handle this drivel.

Frankie

Arse Issues

Dear Dobson,

Welcome home.  Can I begin by saying:

Not only did I choose this because of the song – I thought you’d appreciate the literal, visual interpretation of the lyrics too.  It reminded me of some of our dance routines.

I feel for you and your arse issues.  I’ve had several of my own recently, but those are mainly to do with too much anal sex after what has been a veritable drouth.  Imagine having an enema for three consecutive days and you’ll get the idea – what’s tragic about it is that I don’t seem to have lost any weight as a result.

I have decided, as one of your closest friends, it is now my responsibility to take on your wine consumption by proxy.  I know, I know, I’m a selfless fecker.  You’ll be pleased to hear that tonight I am indulging in a nicely chilled Penis Grigio, it’s absolute muck but was on offer at my local wine merchant (aka Costcutter). 

When I was younger, so much younger than today, I often questioned why women of my mother’s age all drank spirits...  Their reasoning is becoming more apparent with every passing year.  I imagine the only downside to committing to a lengthy relationship with gin, vodka or whiskey would be what doctors have termed the ‘Foie Gras Effect’ on your liver.  I will consider this carefully when I start pissing blood, but until then I’m happy to go with what I term as the ‘Que Sera Sera Effect’.

On that healthy note, I’m off to bed for a wank.  I think this evening’s stimuli will be the aforementioned Hugh Jackman in Les Mis, on his death bed (in his death chair) with David Essex hair.  I’m wet already.

Frankie

Gin?

Dear Frankie

Ah crap.

White wine is doing the same.

Stay warm.  Am off to try and get through snow to work.

Dobson x

Red Wine Wind

Dear Frankie

After two and a bit decades of drinking red wine my body has said 'enough is enough' and given me the gift of horrendous wind whenever the amber nectar is consumed.

Basically I am a red wine fart machine.

The sort that stops you sleeping and makes you double over like a hunchback on a bell tower.

As Dorothy Parker said "What fresh hell is this?"

And I speak as a woman who has had PND, miscarried, been burgled, lost all her confidence at work, gained and lost 25 pounds and had regular therapy for a year.

Why wine, WHY???

Anyhoo.

Nice to be back. Needed the break to be honest. Last term was crazy so it was an easy decision just to shut up shop for a few weeks and go on stand-by. 

I am in survival mode at the moment. I want a 'normal' existence for a while, 'spesh while we are in the middle of winter. I am trying to make work work for me, not out to prove anything, but gain back some sense of pride and perspective.  I like to get home to the kids and switch off.  I may have to switch to gin. There are times in life when compromise is of the essence.

Right. Will see you at Les Mis at the O2 where I have been informed that 'inappropriate' behaviour will result in the management asking you to leave.

So that's wanking to Shugie Jackman out of the question.

Love

Dobson x

First Entry Of The Year - Fnar

Dear Dobson,

It is good to be back on virtual terra firma, ready to provide yourself and a handful of strangers various insights into life as I know it.

It has been a strange period for me and, for once, I’m not referring to menstruation when I say that.  It’s not every day a girl can admit to having befriended a couple of genuine Vikings and had them living in her house for four or so days.  However, that is one of many bizarre things that have taken place of late.

There has been far too much jazz, liquor and a host of other substances on offer during the festivities...  I feel that, for now at least, I need to pull my proverbial socks up and start behaving a tad more responsibly than I have been.

Showing my commitment to this resolution of sorts, I found myself out on a date this lunchtime...  I never fail to marvel at how members of the male species have the power to conceal what’s genuinely going on for them!  It was a nice date, interesting chat, a good looking chap with an admirable penchant for gin but I must admit that when it was time to leave I didn’t expect to see him again.

Apparently we’re going out tomorrow evening.  Who fucking knew?

Frankie