~Trifledreamz~

Being a proud Englishman, i retain the God-given right to moan about the weather throughout the year regardless of season but never more so than today after suffering yet another painfully hot days work during which it seemed as if i'd melt away into a gooey liquid like a sun-stroked ice-lolly.

If there was a single ounce of sense inside my head, i'd phone in sick tomorrow and spend the day at the beach where the cool breezes could play across my exposed skin while the noonday sun patiently roasted my sizzling flesh.

Laying on a baking beach watching the girls go by, having a dip in the wonderfully cool sea whenever i wanted followed by a bag of chips with lots of salt'n'vinegar, ice-cold drinks galore...and then a long, long sleep in the sun until i'd had enough of paradise and went home perfectly happy and refreshed.

But i'm far too conscientious and dutiful for my own good and, of course, i'll be working like the proverbial mad dog again tomorrow, sweating buckets and feeling my energy levels draining steadily away until i have just enough left to drag myself home afterwards and promise myself that one day i really will take that much-deserved sickie.

Being an unassuming and dishevelled concoction of waste vegetation and redundant greenery, i wonder if there is a Spirit of the Compost Heap and if so, does he sometimes regard me as kindred in the same way that i wistfully regard himself on occasion?

With a quiet dignity he sits brooding by the ivy-clad garden wall aware that there are prettier sights than himself within the vicinity yet knowing his station in the grand scheme of things and therefore quite content with whatever debris life throws his way, having long since learnt the fulfilling art of self-acceptance.

Discarded potato-peelings, sodden teabags, dead leaves and yesterdays grass-cuttings, no matter what is cast upon him, he remains unruffled and quietly implacable, even philosophical i dare say, having seen many a season come and go with the passing of the years.

He basks in the sun but doesn't complain when it rains, blesses the myriad creepy-crawlies that infest his innards in his natural spirit of benevolence, watches the pretty young seedlings grow into handsome plants with the satisfaction of having helped nurture them all in his own humble way.

Of those that dwell within the realms of the garden, he is surely the most innocuous and least praised of all residents but would perhaps be the most sorely missed and deeply lamented should he ever shuffle away in the dead of night for pastures new.

There is a certain type of woman with the mysterious ability to subliminally control the mind of man, forcing him to see her in the sexiest black lingerie regardless of what she is actually wearing at any given time.

She dares him not to strip her with his imagination whenever he gazes toward her because she knows only too well that he is powerless to resist and cannot do otherwise, being but a simple man and mortally subject to the bewitching spell that she has cast.

Such was the case with a certain raven-haired beauty that i was once aquainted with via the medium of television for never once did i lay my eyes upon her without a strange kind of intuitive X-ray vision kicking-in to teasingly reveal those sultry assets.

Like all the best mythological demons, she is known by many names...Cruella of the Cobbles, the Wicked Witch of Wetherfield...the Underworld Temptress herself...Carla Connor.

What she did or didn't do, the men she loved or didn't love, the garments she did or didn't wear are all beside the point with Carla because, as far as a man of flesh and blood such as i am concerned, her every appearance was a darkly erotic tale of softly whispered pleasures and pains...so brief in the telling but forever after lingering in the memory.

With Wimbledon beginning tomorrow we can once again enjoy the delights of the worlds finest tennis tournament with all its worthy traditions, there being none finer than the thrilling spectacle of two very attractive, sporty young ladies going at it hammer & tongs together on the lawn right in front of your very eyes.

A hasty burst of googling was required before selecting my favourites this year in the time honoured fashion of completely ignoring the seedings and going straight for the prettiest contestants; Maria Sharapova, Ana Ivanovic and Vera Zvonareva.

There's just something about a heated struggle between two women that captures my imagination and attention..the contest between the girls may begin quite tentatively with some early gently probing strokes but they soon begin to work-up a real sweat, one gradually getting on top of the other and subduing her opponent despite plucky resistance and spirited efforts.

Eventually though, she is forced to her knees because the other girl's hand is faster, her will stronger, her desire greater...the sweet taste of victory already upon her tongue.

The stronger girl on the day skilfully penetrates her adversary's defences in ways both subtle and forceful, quite beautiful to watch, finally resulting in a sound thrashing and a tearful embrace at the climax leaving them both breathless and needing some Robinson's Barley Water before leaving the applause behind and wearily marching off to the showers together.

For the past three days i've fallen prey to the kind of exquisite fantasy that will allow me to concentrate on nothing else, it's on my mind from the minute i leave for work in the morning and throughout the entire working day until the moment i get home again to satiate my cravings, to savour the blessed release of an all-consuming desire appeased until the next time it takes possession of my beleaguered senses.

It threatens to drive me insane, looming so vividly in my minds eye from one hour to another that it almost becomes a shrieking voice inside my head that demands immediate and total obedience, a demand which i am powerless to comply with until i am once again safely within my own four walls.

I indulge my fantasy the very instant i reach home, fleeing upstairs and plunging my feet into gloriously cold water with a sigh of orgasmic proportions.

The plain truth is this: i have bought a new pair of shoes and they're absolutely killing me, blistering me until i hobble along as if walking over hot coals, makng me feel that my poor feet are imprisoned within the raging fires of Hell...innocent though they looked in the shop, i have earnestly come to believe that they are the Devil's footwear.

Will i eventually surface on one of those Body Makeover shows begging the presenter for a saintly new pair of feet?

In times of trial and tribulation we must snatch at the merest crumb of comfort that we can and the only pleasure i've experienced since buying those abominable shoes has been getting home at the end of the day and taking the bloody things off!

In my daydreams this is not my garden at all but that of some well-to-do widow whose demands proved too strenuous for her late husband, and i am merely the hired help, spending my days keeping her foliage well-groomed, ensuring that her pretty little bush is always immaculately trimmed and worthy of loving inspection.

She idly watches my happy toil from the summer house, a playful smile on her lips as she sips something long and cool, passing the odd flattering comment about the quality of my onions, the girth of my marrow or the knowing manner in which i tend her soft fruits.

The day draws on in this pleasant fashion until the afternoon sun beats down so hard that i remove my shirt, drawing my belly in every time i feel her mischievous eyes upon my bare skin which prompts the good lady to express her sudden peckishness and desire for something rather more substantial than the cucumber sandwich that lays untouched on the dish before her.

If i may ask a favour of you, she says whilst wandering back towards the cool of the house, i have an especially delicate and precious pink orchid in my bedroom which i'd be most keen for you to examine. Perhaps you could pop along in ten minutes or so..?

As i say, i'm only the humble gardener and in no position to refuse such a request of a fine damsel in need of attention and therefore i dutifully keep my appointment in her boudoir with the thought of turning my green-fingers to somewhat less horticultural tasks...

The wonderfully rounded feminine belly seems to have become overlooked and almost lost as a sensual attribute these days which is a great shame because it's certainly one of my favourite areas of female anatomy, deserving of far greater admiration than it often receives.

Think of the ancient and seductive art of the belly-dancer: she that possesses a pleasing generosity of figure is by far the most hypnotic, exhibiting a feminine power through the medium of undulating, enchanting flesh which causes a mans mouth to dry and his heated blood to surge, falling bewitched into the Goddess' captivating spell.

A good old-fashioned, womanly belly...soft, warm, inviting, existing for the gentle caress, demanding to be ravished...cherished...worshipped.

The hasty hand of the impatient lover may dart around the more immediate feminine attractions quite unappreciative of the gorgeous territory that divides the obvious regions of pleasure, seeing the belly only as a kind of no-mans-land to be crossed as quickly as possible en route from The Orbs of Splendour to The Golden Gates of Heaven.

But the knowing and patient hand of experience will savour the belly with equal relish, giving it all due time and adoration, affectionate loving attention, the senses lost in the ever generous curves of his exalted and voluptuous Venus, the Rubenesque divinity to whom he pledges body and soul in this consuming nightly ritual of desire.

I'm not entirely sure if this is a case of Good girl gone bad or Bad girl trying to be good, fallen angel or devil redeemed, but watching her over the years has been like witnessing a car crash followed by a train crash followed by plane crash...and all done with a loveable cheekiness of spirit, a playful laugh and an unfailing instinct for the wrong decision in life.

Where on earth would we be if it weren't for Corrie's delightful and ever dazzling Leanne Battersby?

She hurtles through life like a headless chicken, always brimming with cunning and mischief as she hatches her latest fatally flawed plot, always seeking pleasure and frivolity yet always amusingly endearing and radiating a glowing streetgirl charm.

She's been it all in her time: teenage tearaway, unruly wife, mistress to her fiance's father, lap-dancer, escort, barmaid, restaurateur, conspirator in arson, drug addict and in general a proper little madam, bless her.

I've always felt a great deal of fondness for Leanne and long may she continue to entangle herself in all sorts of scrapes and naughtiness, long may she wear her slightly tarnished halo with pride...long live Leanne, the Eternally Unbalanced Battersby Bombshell!

One of the things i like to do when i'm idling away my spare time is to play around editing miscellaneous pictures, changing their effects, altering their focus, turning photos into pencil sketches and so on.

I'd given a few of my own pictures the latter treatment and was feeling fairly pleased with the results when i showed them to my wife who gave a cursorary glance before remarking, You look like a frog!

Feeling somewhat crestfallen, i wandered off for some more tinkering, not even thinking until much later: did she mean i looked like a frog in those particular images or do i just look somewhat froglike in real life?

Perhaps, i mused, she only married me because she expected me to suddenly transform into a handsome prince upon our wedding night?

The sense of disappointment and regret must have been intolerable for the poor woman, having anticipated a golden life in a luxurious palace with a right royal beefcake only to find that she was forever shackled to some kind of croaky amphibian without the proverbial pot to piss in.

A sobering warning then to all women out there who don the rose-tinted specs when dreaming of their romantic futures, because if you marry something resembling a toad then it's pretty safe to say that he'll never turn into Prince Charming no matter how often you kiss the poor bugger.

Yesterday i was fortunate enough to attend a family wedding, a very special wedding too because it was the first marriage involving the new generation, those who we'd seen grow from cheeky little tiddlers to well-rounded and mature young adults, surely one of the most satisfying of sensations for those of us above a certain age.

Our beautiful niece, Amy, was the blushing (and giggling) bride, taking her vows with her beloved Luke and it was both touching and refreshing to witness the shedding of tears at the altar by the overwhelmed groom on this wonderful family occasion.

The ceremony itself was perfect throughout, concluding with a Cherokee blessing which i'd gladly reproduce here if i could remember it because it was so appropriate and meaningful, lending a slightly different spiritual aspect to proceedings but fitting in so wonderfully with the day.

The reception was excellent too and i enjoyed a lengthy spell of people-watching and generally soaking-up the happiness whilst supping my cider, smiling as the wife dropped less than subtle hints to our sons regarding them taking their own strolls down the aisle in the near future, all said, much to the boys' amused irritation, right in front of their respective girlfriends.

All in all, it was a very happy, memorable day and one which will stay with us forever and i can only conclude by saying that we dearly wish Amy & Luke every happiness in the world and a long & loving life in each others arms.

Being off work during such fine weather is brilliant. This week we spent a day in the baking sun just wandering around town and browsing the local market, taking lunch at a cosy window seat in a charming little eaterie called McDonalds, a setting which allowed my wife to watch the world go by while i simply watched all the girls go by.

There were such delicacies as little strips of potato drizzled in salt which i believe were termed Fries, very tasty they were too, and a refreshingly chilled, creamy beverage made from milk and banana which is apparently called a Thickshake.

La pièce de résistance, however, was a magnificent concoction of grilled beef, bacon, cheese, onion, tomato, lettuce, a specially prepared sauce served-up between two wholesome discs of bread (known as Buns) garnished with sesame seeds, the delightful creation an utter triumph of culinary wizardry and entitled The Big Tasty With Bacon.

The setting couldn't have been more idyllic as i peacefully conversed with my better half whilst savouring the sumptuous dish set before me, idly gazing through the plate-glass window at numerous passing womenfolk each with their own individual points of interest.

The entire experience, as connoisseur of fine food and female form, was pleasing to both eye and palate, not least when one young lady took a seat opposite, forgetful of just how short her summer dress was and unwittingly afforded me a fleeting glimpse but like any gentleman would, i pretended not to notice and diverted my eyes back to my fries.

A small sigh always escapes my lips whenever i think of Kathy Glover, like the thought of a deliciously chilled bowl of ice-cream on a long hot summers day or the memory of your first ever kiss with a girl you haven't seen in years.

In fact, had magnificent Malandra Burrows not played Kathy for such a long time then maybe my Emmerdale addiction could've been nipped in the bud and all those lost hours spent on improving my soul, my mind or something like that instead.

Over the years, i saw her grow from a fresh-faced, pretty girl into a very attractive woman, her effervescence dimmed not in the slightest by the loss of two husbands, a divorce and numerous affairs and heartbreaks along the way.

Kathy was never anything less than eye-catching and desirable, a sweet-natured country girl who exuded a kind of knowing innocence but could nevertheless be coaxed into the hayloft for a quick harvest-time romp if you knew which buttons to push.

She managed to combine girl-next-door likeability with simmering sexiness in a way not often seen and the proof of Kathy's delicious pudding is that a woman need not be a total bitch in order to set the pulse racing...i miss her and dearly wish she'd return to the fold one day.

Until yesterday afternoon, it must have been absolute donkeys years since i went anywhere by bus but i found the meandering journey home at the start of my fortnights holiday an unexpectedly pleasant surprise...you can see all sorts of sights from the top of a bus on a hot summers day...

I'd taken my seat amongst a hoarde of sour-faced old codgers and grumpy-faced mums besieged by their irritatingly noisy kids but none of it mattered to me, i had no work for two entire weeks and the weather was gloriously summery, so summery in fact, that everyone still wore their sunglasses inside the bus.

As we made our way along, we passed an almost endless array of seasonally displayed cleavage which is bouncingly distracting at the best of times but becomes an even nicer treat when viewed from the top of a double-decker looking downwards...

As they always do, the bus lurched and jolted on its way with the engine vibrating doggedly and i became fearful of suffering that old travelling condition of mine -the unwanted erection- which usually strikes about two minutes before you have to stand-up and get off the bus; however, this time i was thankfully spared and the anticipated embarrassment avoided.

Being a mere man can be a difficult existence at times and never more so than when a magnificently compulsive cleavage is close at hand to send a poor fellow into a fit of utter distraction, causing all thoughts to become an unintelligible jumble and words a meaningless babble.

Look her in the eye for God's sake! a feeble voice deep inside says while the sumptuous and overpowering breasts in question seem to scream, Look at me! Look at me!

All of a dither and growing deeply ashamed of his roguish scrutiny, the eyes are briefly raised to meet the woman's gaze by sheer determination of will but, as if by natural law such as force of gravity, the magnetic pull of the cleavage once again compels his stare of awe and open admiration downward to chest level...

Afterwards, he may perhaps vaguely recall such trifling details as her hair or eye colour, general looks or possibly what attire she wore but these impressions would be like wisps of smoke that disappear within moments leaving only the vivid image of those gorgeously shaped and weighted globes.

Perhaps womankind could find it in their hearts to be a little more forgiving of their weak-willed male companions for whilst we were all born with the same instincts and needs, the humble man never loses the perfectly natural and quite overwhelming urge to suckle.

I always sensed something deliciously sinful and downright dirty in Chrissie Watts, the strutting Walford poodle with the pitbull bite, never failing to get the impression that this particular lady would do anything -anything at all- to satisfy her own desires and was in fact really no lady at all.

From the wild, tumbling Moll Flanders curls to the knee-length FM boots, Chrissie emanated an aura of sensuality and sin...she just had that look in her eye and that magnetic way of attracting my own.

Tracy-Ann Oberman, who gave life to the character of Dirty Den's even dirtier wife, played her part to perfection in my opinion and always insisted i stayed on the edge of my seat even though i would've much preferred to occupy the hottest spot in her boudoir.

The lesson of todays soap babe choice is that a little dirtiness can go a long, long way with me and that one needs rather more in the sexual armoury than simply prettiness or pert, shapely body...you need a certain dirtiness of spirit too.

I admit that i once had the hots
For a woman they called Chrissie Watts,
I wished to ravish her curls
Give a necklace of pearls
Is it clear that i fancied her lots?

Although it only seems like yesterday to me, it is now precisely three years to the day since my wife said I Do and finally made an honest man of me having previously endured living with me for the best part of a decade.

So soon has our third anniversary arrived that i wonder where the intervening time went...

On our wedding day itself, not one fleeting moment of doubt entered my heart and i can happily tell you that our tying the knot has since caused me not a single minute of regret or sorrow.

Such feelings and emotions might be expressed in flowers or chocolates but may best be said in the silent touch of a hand, a meaningful look in the eye and an embracing sense of togetherness from shared times past along with the prospect of many happy years to come.

People may come and go but while it is easy to envisage my life without many of them, i could never imagine a life spent without my adorable wife by my side.

Just as i was dozing off the other night i became aware of soft steps on the stairs followed by rummaging from the kitchen, my immediate thought being not that we had an intruder but that somebody was raiding the fridge and was possibly about to thieve all my favourite treats.

I crept from my room to investigate and there she stood, bold as brass, the young wench was at the fridge with my scotch eggs, gently weighing them in the palm of her hand, licking her lips and gazing at their succulent splendour in a hungry and almost lustful manner.

Oh no you don't, young lady!

My stern words startled the girl and almost caused her to drop them but she quickly regained herself enough to place them back where they belong with a trembling hand and a weak apologetic smile.

She stood there not knowing what to do next while my eyes took in both her look of shame and semi-attired body, suddenly noticing how cold the kitchen was at this late hour and beginning to feel a little sorry for her after all.

What a naughty girl you are! You know very well that you are forbidden to touch my scotch eggs...whatever am i to do with you?

She lowered her eyes and made no reply, clasping her hands before her modestly, no doubt wondering what her punishment might be.

A long silence ensued between us while i looked her over and she stood meekly avoiding my gaze until at last i smiled, stretching forth a hand and gently grasping cool flesh...

Here you go, my dear, have a cold sausage instead.

I'm aware that she may not be the most obvious Soap Babe but i would never be able to hold my head up again if i were untrue to myself and omitted not only one of my all-time secret soap crushes but also a favourite and much missed Eastenders character.

Beautifully portrayed by Lindsay Coulson, feisty Carol Jackson graced my telly with a flash of fire and a heart of gold, lurching through a succession of doomed relationships with men who simply didn't deserve her whilst battling to bring-up a motley brood of graceless, misfit kids.

For me, she embodied the indefatigable spirit of womanhood, leading a downtrodden struggle of a life but never looking anything less than eminently fanciable to me, always having to fight her corner but seldom allowing me to avert my gaze from her sleek, denim-clad form while fortune dealt her one bad card after another.

I cursed all of those wretched men who passed through her turbulent life because not a single one of them was anywhere near good enough nor loving enough, her compulsively fiery charms merited so much more and i dreamt of whisking her away to a happier, better world one day.

Something about sassy Carol Jackson not only attracted and interested me but touched me too and though you may say i committed a folly in placing her on a slightly rickety pedestal, Carol herself knew that she was always welcome on my pedestal anytime she liked.

I heard a snippet on the radio today in which they asked: What advice would you give if you were able to meet yourself aged 18?

Our lives are like books and how sweet it might be if we were, just for a few moments, permitted to revisit our former selves adding a footnote here, crossing-out entire paragraphs there and fast-forwarding through the mediocre ploddings to the more enjoyable chapters.

Personally, my immediate answer was to name certain people to avoid like the plague when i met them, to cut them dead before any introduction or aquaintance were ever made.

My next thought was to say that life is for living and one should concentrate on the things and people which bring you pleasure and happiness instead of working too hard; bosses never appreciate a hard worker, they merely take them for granted and abuse their good will.

Then i decided that one ought to contemplate lifes little setbacks in a philosophical manner instead of worrying about what may or may not come to pass...often the problems that caused so much stress and anxiety at the time eventually didn't matter at all.

Finally, the real answer to my life being a happier and more fulfilled one over the years, would be to tell my 18-year old self the name of my wife and where she lived so that i could have met her so much sooner than i did...as i'm always saying, if only i'd met her in my youth instead of my mid-thirties, still, better late than never.

Having cast my mind back through many years of avid soap watching, the agonising and indecision is now all over and i've selected my all-time top 20 Soap Babes which i shall reveal in my own time, beginning today with #20...

How the devil, you may wonder, can such a pretty and angelic-looking girl as Katy Sugden from Emmerdale appear so low down in any list like this?

The truth of the matter is, however, that it is almost by virtue of her sweet looks alone that she appears here at all because there are women above her in my rankings not blessed with such beauty but who attain superior status due to their feistiness, bitchiness or sheer wickedness, as is my personal preference in these things.

It all goes to show that force of character does in the end count for much more than mere dreamgirl looks and although Katy (played by the lovely Sammy Winward) has at times threatened -or promised- to become a fallen angel, she has remained sweetness itself with an image as pure as the driven snow despite the odd ill-judged tempestuous fling.

If only she had a mean-streak...

If only those angelic features concealed a heart of ice...

If only they'd turn Katy bad one day...