One of these days i'm going to grasp the nettle, grab the bull by the horns and write myself a real, rip-snorting, bosom-heaving bodice-ripper, full of seething, passionate intrigue, unrequited infatuations and bursting corsets galore...everything but the kitchen sink with not a single cliche overlooked, i hope.

It will be simmering with dark, brooding looks and unspoken desires of forbidden yearning, all bubbling away in the tempestuous cauldron of The Olden Days, thus allowing free reign for romantic period costumes, rakish gentlemen and a cast of thousand upon thousand buxom wenches.

There will be plentiful glimpses of cleavage, petticoats and stockings, naturally, and for the female reader there will be endless displays of rippling torsos, brutish behaviour and devilishly suave aristocrats with flaring nostrils alongside stern-looking yet irresistible beetle-browed ruffians as the blood boils and hearts palpitate feverishly all over the place.

Every chapter will begin with the exclamation Unhand me, you beast! as maiden after maiden loses her innocence and virtue to the villain of the piece, right up until the final instalment in which he oversteps the mark with our fair heroine and comes severely unstuck in a gory and lavishly bloodthirsty manner.

Now then, the question remains, if i choose to appear personally in this swashbuckling tale then should i cast myself as the Absolute Rotter, the Chivalrous Hero or the Faithful Servant, who sees and hears everything but doesn't actually get any of the fun?

ogling