~an archive~

Sometimes when you're reading a book, you come upon a sentence that was so enjoyable to read that you pause to re-read it, allowing the words to sink in and work their spell on the imagination, fully picturing the scene in your mind.

He regarded the delicate lines of her profile, and the small, tight, apple-like convexities of her bodice, so different from Arabella's amplitudes.

Obviously, i'm reading Thomas Hardy's Jude The Obscure, which alternates between a pleasure and a chore, these words describing the comparison in Jude's mind between his beloved, unattainable Sue Bridehead and his estranged wife, the busty country wench, Arabella.

The lusty poet within me wonders whether 'tis better to cherish the sweet apples of virtuous maidenhood or the sun-ripened melons of earthy womanhood...both options certainly require a great deal of musing over.

My own cogitations lead me to draw the conclusion that Arabella had a bigger bum too but i cannot provide literary evidence to substantiate this; Jude was plainly a boobs man and the relative merits of their respective backsides counted for little with him, which is a great shame.

As a lifelong student of the convexities of the bodice, from the demure and gentle swelling to the dangerously over-flowing and ready-to-burst forth, i shall keep my eyes on this little saga yet and see which pair, if either, Jude eventually finds nestling within his rough hands.

Now mourning the passing of a much loved series, i must content myself in yet another of my periodic daydreams, this time wandering the leafy road from Lark Rise To Candleford...

You are not surprised to find me loitering outside the Post Office where i stand rehearsing my finest flattery and charm with which to impress the lovely Dorcas Lane, Postmistress Supreme and my one weakness.

Sadly, she primly and quite correctly declines to dismount the pedestal upon which i have placed her, hinting that it cannot be good for a mans soul to fritter away an entire afternoon attempting an interference with a servant of Her Majesty's Royal Mail.

I stand rejected and crestfallen in the street until i slowly become aware of two-pairs of eyes stealthily peeping in my direction from the shopwindow yonder, eyes which are hastily averted the very moment they meet my own.

Ah, had i forgotten the maidenly sisters Pratt? Miss Ruby and Miss Pearl, an intriguing pair and each individually worthy of my further inspection and warmest attention...sorely in need of male company too, i understand, such graceful and lovely creatures, such little gems.

I stride boldly (and somewhat magnificently, it must be said) across the threshold of their little store, smiling my most winning smile before besieging the sisters with a dazzling display of wit, suavity and charm, which they appear quite unable to withstand, bless 'em.

This being a mere daydream, no conclusion has yet been ascertained but i could never bear to break the heart of either dear madam by choosing one over the other, suffice to say that should they both desire my company then the pair of them may do with me as they please...

This vile corruption of the heart-warming family favourite, My Favourite Things from The Sound Of Music was inspired either by recent posts or comments from several different friends, therefore i cannot be held entirely responsible.

I've seen La Spice beautifully recreate and adapt classic poetry, Milly musing about our tendancy to tinker with song lyrics to amuse ourselves and Timsuzi's comment on bottoms: If Julie Andrews was to sing 'My Favourite Things' for me then it would include something just like you have outlined rather than "Raindrops and Roses!"

A seed had been planted and for several days i was tortured by this song playing constantly inside my mind until it became distorted and somewhat less innocent in nature, a secret delight growing as it took shape and emerged...sing along if you please.

Girls in black corsets with red satin sashes,
Dominant Mistress dispensing whip lashes,
Tight skirts and short skirts,
A wet blouse that clings,
These are a few of my favourite things.

Blondes and brunettes wearing something that's slinky,
Passionate redheads so secretly kinky,
Six of the best,
A good spanking that stings,
These are a few of my favourite things.

Last saturday afternoon i experienced a golden moment in Iceland when i spied and pounced on bottles of Pear Cider for only £2 and another such moment when i sat happily consuming it in the back garden on sunday afternoon.

There i sat in perfect peace, listening to the birds chirping away as i sipped my chosen tipple in glorious sunshine wishing that we could have more sunday afternoons in life and less monday mornings...it felt as if spring had finally arrived yet seems an entire eternity ago when viewed through my midweek weariness.

The label on the bottle informed me that cider-makers have long since reserved some of their orchards for pear trees so that they could personally enjoy the subtle delights of pear cider whilst the rest of us quaff the familiar apple variety.

Presumably you get a better class of wench when the pear version is on offer?

I can never taste cider without a loving reverie dedicated to the rustic wenches and country maids of this fair isle, with whom i've supped gallon upon gallon of traditional cider in my fertile imagination as we romp merrily together amongst woodlands, meadows and cornfields.

It is the perfect fuel for daydreams, the images that fill my mind whenever indulging in a pint or two of the fruity nectar speak of untold passionate rural embraces and liaisons beneath the haystacks down the centuries...listening to The Wurzels, naturally...ah yes, a buxom wench and my ciderrrrr, the simple life is the life for me.

I could sit here quite straight-faced and pretend that i think that the finest sights on Earth are to be found amongst mountains, oceans, lakes or forests but you would only raise a knowing eyebrow and tut at my lofty proclamations...after all, you know me better than that.

The irrefutable Laws of Nature are a mighty force beyond human domain and they state that one thing above all others is an absolute impossibility: No man can look away when a woman bends over.

Even under threat of turning into a pillar of salt, we are powerless to tear our eyes from the subject in question until she has straightened up and continued about her business, leaving us free again to go about our own without the influence of this overpowering compulsion.

Believe me when i swear that We have no choice in the matter whatsoever.

It's a commonplace enough spectacle but with each new instance of this daily occurrence the so-called higher intellect of the species is completely disengaged, propelling us back thousands of years to the days of the grunting, lust-ridden caveman.

Engage me in whatever intellectual conversation you please but the moment some comely wench happens to bend over within 500 yards, i will be struck dumb and stand with eyes locked onto the target of my desire, a boyish grin creeping across my wrinkled features and a fleck of dribble running from my hungry lips.

It truly is a vision more breathtaking than anything else the natural world has to offer.

Something amazing has appeared in our house over the year since both the boys left home, something thats very existence would have been an impossibility during the chaotic days of their occupation...The Sweetie Bowl.

There it happily sits on the lounge table bursting with all manner of tasty little treats for the pleasure and convenience of both myself and my wife whenever we may desire something tempting to tickle our tastebuds.

In former days this humble extravagance would have been pure folly because within minutes of the bowl being lovingly stocked it would contain nothing more than assorted empty wrappers to greet us next time we felt peckish.

How the pair of them could constitute a swarm, a veritable plague of locusts where sweets, cakes and biscuits are concerned, i do not rightly know but, infuriatingly, such was the case...we even resorted to hiding the nicest titbits safely within our bedroom.

Now almost civilised, when they do return for a visit (usually beneath the improving influence of respective girlfriends) they take but a single snack each and even then only when it's been offered, it's as if they became polite overnight.

So as we sit indoors and relax these days, we have the comforting luxury of casting our gazes over the said sweetie bowl safe in the knowledge that the contents thereof are under no immediate threat from scavenging offspring and that all will be well whenever we fancy a crafty nibble.

On tv the other night, Harry Hill excellently demonstrated the art of portraying a person's character through the medium of food, plonking down a jam tart and covering it with a mound of frothy, squirty cream thus perfectly symbolising Paris Hilton.

A small piece of genius which has inspired me to create a modest little menu of my own which i reproduce for your perusal here today but not before i take the liberty of likening myself to a pork pie with a boiled egg in the middle...which hints at my crusty demeanour, my wholesome content and an unexpectedly satisfying centre.

Fern Britton: A sumptuous trifle with creamy fruit topping.
Roxy Mitchell: A tasty little cracker with spicy salsa.
Peggy Mitchell: Tough old leg of mutton served with fresh spring salad.
Nicola Roberts: Temptingly light & exquisite strawberry mousse.
Craig Revell-Horwood: Sour cream & vinegar sorbet.
Victoria Beckham: A Twiglet dipped in Philadelphia.
Holly Willoughby: Sweet summery melon sundae.
Becky Grainger: Pickled onion flavour Monster Munch.
Nicola Blackstock: Vanilla ice-cream drizzled in Marmite.
Kylie: Prime rump.
Louis Walsh: A bitter old prune.
Liz McDonald: A game bird lovingly stuffed.

The very first Vicars & Tarts party was held in 1849, passing almost unnoticed in a sleepy shires backwater as a gathering of upstanding Reverends and some notorious trollops of the surrounding parishes congregated to debate their polarised opinions on love and life.

The dusty old clerics no doubt entertained grand designs regarding the salvation of these fallen angels but they quickly discovered that no man, however righteous or moralistic, was a match for seductively fluttering eyelashes, dangerously straining corsets or an intoxicated wiggle.

One of the attending vicars' diaries, of which only hastily-scribbled fragments remain, dwelt upon such mysterious topics as those mischievous ladies of the night and their deliciously wobbly puddings, which was followed with an unfathomable ejaculation regarding that succulent, devils gateway, lying 'twixt the fairest of thighs whence all men become drawn and are ruined.

Personally, i've never been invited to a Vicars & Tarts evening (which i consider to be a gross deficiency in my education) and have often wondered whether the Tarts do indeed get the upper hand or if the clergymen finally persuade the young ladies concerned to repent and see the error of their wanton ways.

Should i ever receive such an invite, a dilemma would soon present itself: whether to side with the good Fathers like a meek village parson or simply follow my natural course and swear allegiance to the stocking & suspender clad strumpets, smiling quiet encouragement as bras are unhooked and knickers adorn the ankles.

We know her name so well and yet there is very little historical information about the Queen of Sheba, knowing her only through fleeting appearances in the Bible and subsequent Hollywood interpretations of her supposed exploits.

Was she indeed one of the most beautiful and seductive women that ever lived?

Did every man who gazed into those alluring eyes become helpless prey to her hypnotic charms and why does her very name still resound within our minds after over 3,000 years?

Whatever the truth of the matter, i am eternally intrigued and fascinated by the more mysterious female figures throughout history and will continue to wonder what it would have been like to encounter each of them in the flesh, permitting myself the odd daydream on the subject.

If Solomon truly tricked this enigmatic Queen into his bed with a jar of water then could i have been in the running with my bowl of trifle, a Ginsters pasty and some cans of cider from the shop down the road?

King Solomon invited the Queen of Sheba to a banquet, serving spicy food to induce her thirst, and inviting her to stay in his palace overnight. The Queen asked him to swear that he would not take her by force. He accepted upon the condition that she, in turn, would not take anything from his house by force...
However, as she woke up in the middle of the night, she was very thirsty. Just as she reached for a jar of water placed close to her bed, King Solomon appeared, warning her that she was breaking her oath, water being the most valuable of all material possessions.
Thus, while quenching her thirst, she set the king free from his promise and they spent the night together...And King Solomon gave to the queen of Sheba all her desire, whatsoever she asked.