~an archive~

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.