hard to pin down or expose. We usually caution the wife.
Dick (the honey pot) Dipper – into anything that moves.
Big Dick – a City boy.
Decent Dick – true to his wife.
Premature Dick – a bona fide letch, he loves to lookie, but no touchie and never nookie. The type mainly found in lap-dancing emporiums.
Dick Dock – wife had forgiven previous adulterous liaison but suspicions have been rearoused.
Slick Dick – gorgeous man, no wonder his wife is insecure.
Private Dick – strictly an Internet adulterer. Chatroom addict, or, as we like to call them, a techno wanker.
WHICH OF COURSE BRINGS US BACK TO BOB
A dickhead. His emails continuing to blast the airwaves. In my heart of hearts, I strongly suspected the finger had fallen out in the car during our entwinement; most likely it
slipped down a crack. (No pun intended, so don’t even go there.)
I should have come clean and called Bob at work, strictly off the record, and said, ‘Look, mate, whatever happened, let’s just forget it, and by the way did you happen to find a
finger in your car?’ Somehow it didn’t flow right.
I hate confrontations, always have done. It was three months before I told my boyfriend Finn about Jan. He’d come back from his expedition and the first thing he said was,
‘You’ve put on weight, Issy. Suits you.’
I’d beamed with joy, instead of getting all uppity and angsty, and I guess this made him suspicious. A female happy to expand in girth? Unheard of in Western civilisation.
To be honest, I have never felt more womanly or truly beautiful than when I was pregnant. The fuller the better. My colossal reflection had a luminous glow. I pitied bony women, obsessed with
their bodies in their ever more frantic desire to remain young. Everything, bar this new being forming within me, paled into insignificance. How ingenious is the human body was the thought I
carried throughout my pregnancy. Says a lot for the hormones, hey? Like totally obliterating one’s rationality. Rendering you in effect something not unlike a beached whale going slightly
doolally.
Finn was fairly devastated, his trust in me shattered, though I believe he did love me. He couldn’t hack it, so he cut off all communication and I haven’t seen him since.
After meeting with the detective, I’d moseyed on down to the office to check out my week’s schedule. Nadia was in high spirits – she was on a roll, having
achieved positive results with her last ten clients. We have a monthly scoreboard, and there’s a bonus for the winner. I was lagging way behind, the loser in the race, which I blamed on the
tools I’d had the misfortune of having to chat up. Bob, Mr Finklestein . . . I ask you? I mean how could I possibly compete?
I recall saying something similar to my mother, the one year she managed to make it to my school sports day. And I’ll never forget the look on her face when I came in last every race. She
did her best to smooth over my disappointment, never mind the fact she’d given me a soup ladle for the egg and spoon.
‘Nadia, I think someone’s put a hex on me.’
She was merrily humming, strumming her fingers on the desk.
‘Cool. Hey, Issy, you won’t believe it . . .’
I booted the computer to check whether Bob had sent yet another email. There it was, loitering in my inbox with intent: ‘Sexy Bob on the horn 4 U. Tell me when, where, I’ll be there.
xxxxx.
How I wished I was in a position to say, ‘In your –’
PIPE DREAMS AND GONADS
‘Issy, are you listening? I said it’s finally beginning to happen.’
‘What?’
‘On the singing front.’
‘About time.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Personally I thought you were past it, you know, like it was a dream you were hopelessly clinging on to.’
In previous moments of creativity, otherwise known as unemployment, I’d started up my own business. Convinced I was on to something big with Pipe Dreams. A revolutionary product, dreams
one could hold on to. In
Dick (the honey pot) Dipper – into anything that moves.
Big Dick – a City boy.
Decent Dick – true to his wife.
Premature Dick – a bona fide letch, he loves to lookie, but no touchie and never nookie. The type mainly found in lap-dancing emporiums.
Dick Dock – wife had forgiven previous adulterous liaison but suspicions have been rearoused.
Slick Dick – gorgeous man, no wonder his wife is insecure.
Private Dick – strictly an Internet adulterer. Chatroom addict, or, as we like to call them, a techno wanker.
WHICH OF COURSE BRINGS US BACK TO BOB
A dickhead. His emails continuing to blast the airwaves. In my heart of hearts, I strongly suspected the finger had fallen out in the car during our entwinement; most likely it
slipped down a crack. (No pun intended, so don’t even go there.)
I should have come clean and called Bob at work, strictly off the record, and said, ‘Look, mate, whatever happened, let’s just forget it, and by the way did you happen to find a
finger in your car?’ Somehow it didn’t flow right.
I hate confrontations, always have done. It was three months before I told my boyfriend Finn about Jan. He’d come back from his expedition and the first thing he said was,
‘You’ve put on weight, Issy. Suits you.’
I’d beamed with joy, instead of getting all uppity and angsty, and I guess this made him suspicious. A female happy to expand in girth? Unheard of in Western civilisation.
To be honest, I have never felt more womanly or truly beautiful than when I was pregnant. The fuller the better. My colossal reflection had a luminous glow. I pitied bony women, obsessed with
their bodies in their ever more frantic desire to remain young. Everything, bar this new being forming within me, paled into insignificance. How ingenious is the human body was the thought I
carried throughout my pregnancy. Says a lot for the hormones, hey? Like totally obliterating one’s rationality. Rendering you in effect something not unlike a beached whale going slightly
doolally.
Finn was fairly devastated, his trust in me shattered, though I believe he did love me. He couldn’t hack it, so he cut off all communication and I haven’t seen him since.
After meeting with the detective, I’d moseyed on down to the office to check out my week’s schedule. Nadia was in high spirits – she was on a roll, having
achieved positive results with her last ten clients. We have a monthly scoreboard, and there’s a bonus for the winner. I was lagging way behind, the loser in the race, which I blamed on the
tools I’d had the misfortune of having to chat up. Bob, Mr Finklestein . . . I ask you? I mean how could I possibly compete?
I recall saying something similar to my mother, the one year she managed to make it to my school sports day. And I’ll never forget the look on her face when I came in last every race. She
did her best to smooth over my disappointment, never mind the fact she’d given me a soup ladle for the egg and spoon.
‘Nadia, I think someone’s put a hex on me.’
She was merrily humming, strumming her fingers on the desk.
‘Cool. Hey, Issy, you won’t believe it . . .’
I booted the computer to check whether Bob had sent yet another email. There it was, loitering in my inbox with intent: ‘Sexy Bob on the horn 4 U. Tell me when, where, I’ll be there.
xxxxx.
How I wished I was in a position to say, ‘In your –’
PIPE DREAMS AND GONADS
‘Issy, are you listening? I said it’s finally beginning to happen.’
‘What?’
‘On the singing front.’
‘About time.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Personally I thought you were past it, you know, like it was a dream you were hopelessly clinging on to.’
In previous moments of creativity, otherwise known as unemployment, I’d started up my own business. Convinced I was on to something big with Pipe Dreams. A revolutionary product, dreams
one could hold on to. In
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