don't call me a cougar

Stepping out with a younger man requires confidence. Choosing the first younger guy who comes along (because he’s better than nothing), is doomed to end in failure. You need to be in the right place mentally and emotionally to deal with a relationship of any kind, let alone one with a younger man.

Perhaps you’re recently divorced, and think a younger guy will boost your morale – and be a bit of fun.  And perhaps it will be. But stepping back onto the dating scene requires courage – particularly with a younger man. Some people will tell you the best way to recover from your past relationship is to put yourself right back out there, but unless you have taken the time to evaluate what caused the break-up of your past relationship, and have learnt the lessons that resulted from it, you’re probably better to go gently and find yourself someone with whom you share much in common to ease back in to the dating game – that person may be someone closer to your own age. Emotional baggage is a sure-fire turn-off for most men, especially for younger guys who lack the life experience to be able to relate to and empathise with the ghosts of your past.

For the rest of the article go to http://beyondcougar.wordpress.com

I think the term Cougar is demeaning to women. I understand why she wouldn’t want to be called that. It strikes up an image of a horny older woman who wants to recapture her youth thru younger men. Why can’t an older woman be with a younger man because there is a mutual attraction and sometimes chemistry is timeless. Why does the woman have to be viewed as an oversexed predator.

The  rest of the summer is filled with visits to my children, parties and an attempt to sort out the chaotic muddle into which my life seems to have slipped.     On a gloriously sunny afternoon I decide  to make a list of  my failures.  The parking tickets remain unpaid, I feel that the local councils in my own town and a town in Essex  will probably surive without my £70 contributions towards their financial stability.   I have no doubt they will pursue me at some point but as usual I will cross that bridge only when necessary  so the tickets remain in my French Connection carrier bag which doubles as a filing cabinet.    I still have not made the duty visit to my mother pleading an excessive workload as the excuse.    The planned holiday with my daughter never materialised, not my fault this time, she still has not found her passport.    I wonder if perhaps I am in some way to blame,  she has obviously inherited my chaotic genes.    She decides that we should have the holiday next Easter, suggesting that we also take her girlfriend, my son and his girlfriend and as an afterthought tells me I  may take a friend, specifying ‘female’  friend.   The prospect of having rampant sex with someone, while on holiday with my offspring is highly unlikely but I feel my daughter would not appreciate that comment, instead I agree that Portugal next Easter is an excellent idea. 

The effort of listing my summer failures is becoming too much for my brain,  I escape to the garden with gin and ‘The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy’ , a book I can identify with so well.    Very soon my failures are but a distant memory as the book, the sun and the gin, take over.

The next day I have been invited to yet another lunch party.   Out of politeness I always accept the invitations even though I know that after an hour I will be planning my escape.    I join a group discussing gardens and greenfly, sip warm white wine and feel decidedly off balance as my heels sink into the manicured lawn.    One of the group, a body double for Billy Bunter,  leers at me and comments in a loud voice,  ‘So, you’re a Cougar now I hear’.    I resist the temptation to reply  ’And you’ve always been an arsehole I hear’,  instead I smile and ask him to define the word Cougar.   He tells me that a Cougar is an older woman who hunts down young men purely for the purpose of sex.   I nod and reply that he is spot on and on my hunting nights I dress appropriately in a leather mini skirt, low cut top and six inch heels, carrying with me a whip and dog collar in case my prey are less than willing and that I then use the whip and dog collar in the bedroom.   His jaw drops onto his three chins and my wave of revulsion is replaced by sympathy at the prospect of his wife having to live with and endure sex with such a very unpleasant mountain of lard.   

A friend in the group bursts into laughter at my description of the ‘Cougar’ clothes and Billy Bunter realises he is being duped.    Taking pity on his ignorance I explain that the term Cougar originates from Canadian and American TV programmes and while I do have sex with younger men, much preferring them to men of my own age, I hve never yet needed to hunt for sex or dress in a manner I could consider inappropriate.    I am tempted to regale him with some of my exploits but feel no desire to stimulate his overactive sexual imaginaton, deciding instead to swig the last of the warm wine, pull my heels out of the lawn and leave the party to discuss my sex life in my absence.

On the way out a friends’s husband asks if I have realised my car tax run out two weeks previously.   I am horrified at this and cannot recall receiving a reminder.   Back home out comes the French Connection filing system and, looking through the paperwork  realise I never sent off the new keeper slip when I bought the car earlier in the year!   So now driving an untaxed car is added to my parking misdemeanours.

Chaos reigns!

My Ms Naughty

My journey back to Suffolk on Sunday morning is peppered with texts and phone calls from girlfriends giving me the lowdown on the remainder of the previous evening, which seems to have proved entertaining.  I hate weekend travel by rail when part of the journey is by replacement bus.   I vow to start driving into London, something I haven’t done for years but the memory of  dicing with death around Trafalgar Square, an eight month pregant girlfriend in the passenger seat and convinced the trauma may cause her to give birth at any moment persaudes me against such a risky course of action.

I realise that at some point during the week I will have to clean the house as a girlfriend is coming to stay for the weekend.   Whatever happened to the domestic goddess who at some time in the distant past took pride in spending every Friday evening hoovering, dusting, washing;   looking with smug satisfaction at the result of her labours.   Now the hoover comes out of the cupboard only when absolutely necessary, any surface in need of dusting is given a cursory flick and the kitchen floor is washed when I stick to it with both feet.    As usual I put off the cleaning until the last possible moment.   

Mr N messages to ask when we can see each other and enquires as to whether the purchase I made for him is still tucked in my bra.  I tell him that no I have it stored safely and at that moment the realisation hits me that I have no idea where I stored it.    I try to think  what I might have done with it,  and reason that as it was in my bra, it should be somewhere in the bedroom which seems a good place to start looking.    A search of my special underwear drawer, which has strong links to my visits to Mr N, proves fruitless.   I brave the dust and detritus under my bed and although I don’t find what I’m looking for I do find my Rabbit.    The underwear drawer had revealed a pack of batteries that fit the rabbit so the search has at least proved semi successful.   My ability to store items safely without them ever reappearing is well known.   I recall things in the past which have been stored never to be found;  a memory card reader for the camera, several pieces of jewellery, driving licence, spare car keys, the list is endless and I wonder if it would be worthwhile writing a note to myself everytime I put something in a safe place and pinning the list to the fridge. 

My search continues in the bathroom, under the increasing pile of unironed clothes and eventually downstairs.   I find my new credit card, two unpaid parking fines and a final reminder for the TV licence but still not what I was looking for.   Exhausted I decide to sit in the garden with a gin and tonic, confident that the packet will reappear.   I wonder if I should worry about living my life in such a chaotic bubble but once again think of Janet Street Porter’s words.   If I was into wearing tee-shirts with slogans I would definitely have one with ‘Life’s Too Fucking Short’ emblazoned across the front but the only printed tee-shirt I allow myself is my treasured Springsteen one with ‘Tramps Like Us’ across the chest.

Back in the house I open a kitchen cupboard to find a bottle of mineral water and out falls a small tupperware box.   As I throw the box back in amongst all the other jumble of tupperware and realise, with a sense of relief  it contains the elusive packet.   I decide to put it into my special overnight  bag straight away, after all that is something I always take with me when I see Mr N and it will surely be safe there.  

Having spent one evening searching the house and two trying half heartedly to tidy the garden, Thursday has to be spent making an effort to make the house acceptable for C’s visit and by the time I pick her up from the station the house is marginally presentable.   I remember that I have to make desserts for a party the following day but there is no time as C and I are meeting a girlfriend of mine for dinner.    I drive to the restaurant but it takes little persuasion for me to join the others in hitting the wine and leaving my car until the morning.

As usual the next morning my best intentions don’t materialise.   I ring for a cab to take me back to the restaurant, a 15 minute journey.   The cab driver begins by discussing local restaurants and seamlessly moves to why we should not be in Europe, bemoaning the nanny state in between.   I realise that we have missed the turning to the restaurant and would have pointed out the mistake if I had been able to break into his conversation.   By the time he realises his mistake the 15 minute journey has become 45 minutes and the time for C and I to depart for Surry is fast approaching.   C rings with a list of shopping she needs me to pick up from Waitrose and I abandon all thoughts of making desserts, opting instead for a selection from the freezer cabinet.  

We eventually leave at the time we should have been arriving in Surrey after I realise I have no oil in my car and have to call on a neighbour to unscew the oil cap.   I loathe being a helpless female but am cheered when even the neighbour has a struggle to dislodge the cap.    We fly down the A12 at 110mph and I pretend not to notice C clutching the door handle but the 10 miles of M25 to the Dartford Crossing is solid with traffic.   I take the opportunity to change C’s taste in music;  she is rather fond of Lionel Ritchie but instead educate her in  Faithless, Springsteen and Kings of Leon.  

We finally arrive in Surrey and at 3pm I have my first gin.   Eight hours later and having swapped gin for a lethal punch, Bollinger and 9 shots of tequila I drift into a blissful sleep or pass out as has been suggested, on the sofa, the last thing I remember is asking a friend to find my phone so I can ring Mr N.

By Ms Naughty

Saturday morning is chaotic.  Instead of spending the previous evening cooking the food I promised for the afternoon’s picnic I spent two and a half hours chatting  on google talk.   The chat had been much too interesting and increasingly naughty to cut short; the extremely gorgeous person to whom I had been chatting is currently working abroad but when home, lives just off the A12, a road I already know very well and may come to know even better.    I realise I am adding further complications to my already confused state but it certainly prevents my brain from reaching a state of atrophy.

I give the cooking my full concentration and four hours later have a cool box filled with home made Scotch eggs,  crudites with my own mayonnaise and a lemon cake with lemon curd and marscapone filling.  

Food prepared I now have to face the much more important issue of what to wear and how much preparation is needed.   Dinner with G would required detailed attention to all access areas, something which would be unnecessary for a family dinner.   The beige linen dress would fit both occasions but the Coco de Mer lingerie and stockings would definitely be out of place in Camden.

Having spent far too long in dithering indecision I finally set off for London.   As usual I’m running late, a heavy cool box and overnight bag slow my progress and sitting on an overcrowded train I entertain the other passengers with my make up routine.    I don’t think anyone on the train has ever seen Touche Eclat before and they look suitably impressed as the dark shadows under my eyes disappear with deft brushwork.   Balancing the contents of a full make up bag, nail varnish and a coffee on my knee requires concentration but by the time I reach Liverpool Street my face no longer resembles something that would scare horses.   The weather forecast is not promising so I decide to buy an umbrella in Accesorize and am lucky enough to find one that matches my dress.  God forbid I should be seen with an unmatched outfit!    Whether I spend the evening on my knees on G’s Persian rug, drinking champagne or in Camden, listening to my cousin whose voice is a cross between Joyce Grenfell and sandpaper being rubbed on a cheese grater, I have no intention of being seen with frizzy hair so the umbrella is a must.

I finally arrive at Lancaster Gate 45 minutes late but my patient girlfriends have waited for me.   Stopping to buy wine for the picnic I am having difficulty balancing cool box, overnight bag, handbag and now a carrier bag filled with bottles of wine and struggle into Hyde Park.   The picnic is a great success spoiled eventually by the weather which sends us first to the shelter of a tree.   When the rain eventually finds its way through the leaves and pours into the remains of the picnic we decide the time has come to find the nearest pub.     Two pubs, several glasses of red wine later and with damp clothing the time comes for me to move on and I accept a friend’s kind offer to use her hotel room to change so off I go.  

Half an hour later, changed and with make up repaired I exit the hotel and ask the doorman to find me a cab.    The cab pulls up and in I get.   I give the driver the address but am I on my way to night of fun in Blackheath or a night of doing my family duty in Camden ………………………..

By Ms Naughty

Given an unexpected day off work I decide to use it productively but two cups of coffee and a text to Mr N later I think that a nap is a good idea.   Spending time with Mr N always gives me a good feeling and I snuggle up under the duvet reflecting on how good the previous night had been.

I realise that it must appear that my life revolves around waiting for the next call from Mr N.   This is not the case, I have lots of other things going on in my life  and I am looking forward to the week ahead but still have not resolved the problem of the dinner invitation from G.   I have a habit of putting difficult decisions to the back of my mind and dealing with them at the last possible moment and this is what I do.

Wednesday is lunch with a girlfriend and a girl neither of us have met but are looking forward to meeting tremendously to discuss various ideas for the site.   The meeting is great fun and we entertain the other diners in a pub garden somewhere in the depths of Buckinghamshire with our combined tales and much laughter.   J proves to be just as funny in real life as she is in print but her ability to drive and talk are perhaps not her greatest asset and I feel we have been fortunate to arrive back at the station without being squashed underneath the wheels of a white van.  

Back home I settle down for an evening of writing.  I need to check on some dates and scroll through my texts, coming across the photo Mr N sent the previous week.   Looking at the message details I am a little surprised to find I was not the only recipient of the photo.    Just at that moment Mr N texts to say what a fantastic night Sunday was.    I text back agreeing but can’t help commenting on the fact that others have been lucky enough to receive his pic.   He texts back to say I know that he chats to people and asks if I still talk to other people!   Hmmmm difficult one to answer that, especially as a few minutes later G rings to say how much he is looking forward to us having dinner on Saturday.   My reply to Mr N is that yes, I talk to anyone but don’t send pics.   I realise this is being a little economical with the truth but it has been a while since anyone has been lucky enough to have one of my special pics!

I am now in a complete quandry.   Is Mr N merely talking to other people;  just a couple of weeks previously he had said, categorically that he does not see anyone else.   Should I have dinner with G and if I do, would it just be dinner?   I know myself too well.   Once again I put the decision to the back of my mind, it’s only Wednesday after all and I have at least two days to make up my mind.

Thursday I spend the day in Brighton with my children.   Now they live away from home I always look forward to seeing them even though I know my bank balance will suffer.   My daughter meets me from the train and we find a pub and wait for her brother.   The boy has obviously inherited my inability to be on time and 45 minutes later he turns up with his girlfriend, girlfriend’s friend and his flatmate in tow.   I realise lunch is going to be expensive and wonder if the fact we are going to Jamie Oliver’s restaurant has persuaded the waifs and strays to tag along!  

As I sit being entertained by my completely mad offspring I am glad they are free spirits and that I let them choose the direction they wanted to follow  in life instead of insisting they follow the conventional route.   We’ve come through  difficult times together, had some very tough years but that is all behind us now and the three of us couldn;t be closer.   It does seem though that I have brought them up to have expensive tastes and I wonder where my son developed such a taste for highly priced cocktails!    Usually I am unimpressed by celebrity chef restaurants but this one is superb and I pay the £200 bill with just a small intake of breath!

I have a little business to do with my son, for Mr N and I am slightly nervous on the journey home to have a cling filmed packet stuffed into my bra, having visions of sniffer dogs following me around Liverpool Street.   The journey home is uneventful however although busy with texts and phone calls.   My decision about Saturday is made more complicated by a dinner invitation from a cousin in Camden.   She wants me to make a Christening cake for her son and daughter in law and as they are visiting for the weekend thinks it will be a good opportunity to see talk about the cake.   I realise that turning down the invitation will incur the wrath of my mother, not a pleasant prospect so I now have to choose between a dull family evening with dreadful food, discussing a cake, or what could be a very interesting dinner in another part of London! 

I know that part of my indecision is to do with Mr N but am I being foolish?   Am I really, as he insists, the only person he sees?   Should I really be turning down an invitation from G who is so keen to see me.   Should I spend the evening with family in Camden?

Saturday arrives and I know the decision has to be made but what is it going to be……………….

By Mis Naughty

I stare at the incoming text and wonder whether to ignore it and continue with an evening of  TV and the laptop.   Why am I even fooling myself,  am I seriously going to forego a night of sex with Mr N in favour of Sunday night TV!   I refuse to show how weak willed I am by replying immediately so log onto msn and see if there is anyone worth chatting to.   Probably not, I seem to have the ability to give my msn address mostly to exhibitionists who assume that I will be thrilled to see their erection on cam; or voyeurs who think my sole desire in life is to get my tits out for them on cam!

Mr N immediately begins to chat telling me they lost and he and the boys are having a post mortem.   Lost?  Post mortem?  I wonder if I have somehow fallen asleep and missed part of the conversation and have a vision of a body lying on the ironing board in Mr N’s flat and being dissected with a No 5 iron.   I enquire as to what has been lost and suggest that he tells the boys he has a headache, a backache, a friend in need; anything which will bring the post mortem to a swift conclusion and encourage the boys to leave.  

Leave they do and within the hour I’m flying down the A12 with a smile on my face.   I get the usual texts throughout the journey and as usual reply, realising that texting and driving at 30mph over the speed limit is not the most sensible of  ideas.    But   when have I ever shown any sense over Mr N?   Three days of silence and I give in without hesitation when he wants to see me!   Why don’t I say no?   Simple, because I don’t want to say no; I want to see him and spend the night,  not only having amazing sex but just being with him.   Why pretend?  As Janet Street Porter says, Life’s too fucking short!   

The minute he opens the door I know I was right to give in.   He is eager to tell me about the lost match and the post mortem, apologising every so often for boring me with the details.   I’m not bored; curled up in a chair with him stroking my hair and feeding me red wine I could listen to him for hours.   The point arrives when the talking stops, we look at each other and know instinctively it’s time to move to the bedroom.   There are times when the sex is very gentle, this time that isn’t what we want, this time it’s raw and steamy and just as perfect.    As I fall asleep I notice it’s 4.30am and accept that I’m going to be late for work yet again.

I drag myself out of bed at 8.30am and go through the flat collecting my clothes when were left in a heap on the floor the previous night.   I wonder if anyone will notice the crumpled state of my dress, too bad if they do, I haveno time to call at home and change.     I glance in the bathroom mirror and immediately regret doing that;  if no one notices the state of my clothing one look at my face, even with make up will tell them why I’m late for work.   Mr N is still fast asleep, I nudge him awake and an rewarded with a mumbled ‘Bye darling, text me when you get to work’.    Oh where has the previous night’s passion gone?

I race back up the A12 determined not to be more than an hour and a half late for work.    I’m surprised to see police cars in the car park and am greeted by a colleague telling me that the offices have been broken into overnight, the police are not  allowing anyone into the building and there was no point in me coming to work.    I thank him for not ringing to tell me and silently curse him for depriving me of the opportunity to stay in bed with Mr N and carry on where we had left off at 4.30am!

By Ms Naughty

The rest of the week holds not much in store but the day out with the girls had been such fun that work was bearable.    The usual mini crises with my adorable but chaotic children.   Daughter has lost both her passport and birth certificate which makes the possibility of us going on holiday in the foreseeable future diminish rather.   She has no clue how to sort it out; I refuse to do it for her and explain what she must do to organise new ones.   I suggest that she perhaps takes more care of her possessions and try not to return home from alcoholic nights out  minus such important items.   As usual the advice doesn’t go down well!   Son has signed up for a video game design course and is wondering whether he made a mistake.  Asking if he investigated the course thoroughly before signing up and handing over money again is not taken well.    I try to remember whether at their age I was as resistant to taking advice as my children appear to be and whether I knew as much as they seem to.   

Wednesday:  Home from a busy day at work I try to avoid comparing my neighbour’s immaculate garden to my weed ridden mess and push aside the voice telling me to spend the evening gardening.   A girlfriend rings and by the time we have gossiped our way through my first drink of the evening, gardening is not an option.   She asks if I still annoyed with Mr N and, spookily, just as she asks the question, a text comes through from him.   I finish the conversation with my girlfriend and, cursing the annoying man for not staying in his box, reply to the text.   Almost immediately I receive another, this time from G, home from his travels, he is looking forward to seeing me and suggests we meet for dinner.    The next hour is shared between texts from G and Mr N at the end of which I have agreed to see Mr N the following evening and have dinner with G on a date when I’m next in London.   I tell myself that there is plenty of time to cancel dinner and of course I will do it very gently.  

Thursday morning I feel in a positive frame of mind and decide to tackle some jobs around the house.   Text from Mr N, followed by a multimedia message.   Nothing naughty, just showing his newly toned physique, after all  this time it would seem a little pointless sending pics of a part of his anatomy with which I am extremely familar.   

By 10pm it is obvious that the pic is the only thing I am going to see of Mr N, I am not amused.   I know exactly what the scenario will have been – sport – bar – obvilion!  but am not trying to make excuses.

Friday evening having dinner with a girlfriend I tell her that Mr N has now dropped into the relegation zone  and I will certainly not be cancelling dinner with G planned for a future weekend.   Still no word from Mr N and I decide that I am worth more than being ignored by someone so pathetically useless.   Saturday is an extremely busy day helping a friend cater for a lunch party she is giving on Sunday so I concentrate on my cooking.

By Sunday morning Mr N is a distant memory as I tell my friends at the lunch party.    For some reason they are decidedly sceptical saying they’ve heard it all before.  I assure them I mean it this time.   I enjoy the party but because I am driving drink only mineral water and watch the rest of the party become increasingly animated and sort out all the worlds problems over large amounts of red wine.

Back home I pour my first drink of the day, settle down for an evening of  TV and then get the inevitable text ……….

By Ms Naughty

Monday morning I wake from a blissfully uninterrupted sleep.  No texts, no drunken phone calls, no intimate pics. 

If it wasn’t for the fact that I was going into town to meet two of my favourite girlfriends for lunch, the weekend would definitely be casting a cloud over my day.   But I love meeting up with the girls so I go off to catch the train feeling very upbeat and looking to a boozy, gossipy lunch.   On the station I buy a new book,  I finished the neew Anita Shreve at the weekend, such a beautifully written story but very bleak which probably did nothing to lift the wekeend blues.  I choose ‘One Morning Like a Bird’ by Andrew Miller and, once on the train am immediately immersed in the wonderfully descriptive writing and enchanting story.

For once I am almost on time, arriving in Hanover Square, minutes, not hours late.  The three of us have a lot of catching up to do and spend the next two hours talking non-stop, pausing only to consume large quanties of white wine and small amounts of food to absorb the wine.    The conversation covers many topics but men feature largely.   It is inevitable that my conversation on that subject revolves largely round the elusive Mr N, his weekend preference for his sport instead of sex and the conclusion that some situations will never change.   

After lunch I meet up with another girlfriend who is coming into town for an early evening date.   We trawl the shops in Oxford Street, trying on clothes and shoes , all the time keeping up a constant stream of chatter.  We finally collapse into comfortable seats on the patio of  a bar and drink Long Island Iced Tea.   For once we find another topic of conversation and discuss our children, how we adore them, their reaction to our internet dating, their futures.  S  goes to freshen up before her date and emerges looking stunning.   We part company, S heading for Piccadilly and her date and me towards Liverpoool Street.

I sit on the train thinking how important it is to have close girlfriends to keep one sane and how it really isn’t necessary for sex to rear it’s head to have fun!   Damn why did that word creep in, I pick up my book and close the box with a resounding bang!

By Ms Naughty

So, woken from my sleep I open the text message.  Surprise, surprise, it’s the exhausted Mr N!   I text back asking if he’s exhausted why he’s still awake.   We spend the next two hours texting and it seems at one point as if I might be tempted to make the drive into Essex but tiredness overcomes me and I fall asleep, mid-text.

In the morning I wake with a bad headache, feeling shivery.    I Google swine flu and convince myself  have all the symptoms; the internet can be a dangerous thing sometimes but I decide to stay in bed rather than spend the day cleaning the house and gardening.   After all I might be very ill in which case any kind of exertion could be dangerous and I could die in my bed without anyone there to save me.   I suddenly think about the implications if I were to expire suddenly and how shocked my children would be if they searched my laptop, opened my special underwear drawer and found the interesting overnight bag I take when I visit Mr N!    Damn, only been awake half an hour and the box has popped open. 

Okay the box is open so I decide to make a mental list of the fors and against the annoying man.

For:

1. I like him a lot, pretty obvious that as we’ve been seeing each other for a year
2. He tells me he likes me a lot and is affectionate
3. My stomach does a back flip whenever he texts and whenever I see him
4. He notices and comments on what I’m wearing, my perfume, my hair, something I love but never experienced in all the time I was in a long term relationship
5. We can talk and argue for hours on all manner of subjects
6. The sex is the best I’ve ever had in my life.

Against:

1. He is infuriating, unreliable, totally hopeless at communicating and blows me out in favour of his sport and has the ability to make me always forgive his shortcomings, something no one else would get away with!

Analysis over he goes back into his box and I settle down with tea and the Telegraph.   The first article does nothing to cheer me, 65,000 expected to die from Swine flu.  My headache and shivering immediately feel much worse and I convince myself I am going to be one of the 65,000.   I wonder if I should start thinking of music for my funeral.  ’God is a DJ’ by Faithless could be a good choice I think.   I have to stop thinking like this, I’ll be ringing Gladys, the local undertaker by lunchtime at this rate!   I read the rest of the paper, looking at a photo of the Queen and thinking she bears a striking resemblence to my mother.  I wonder if she is as scary as my mother, probably not.  Feeling ill is obviously making me  slightly depressed as I start thinking it really is time I made the long trek to visit my mother. 

I fall asleep only to be woken by a text.  Someone has sent me a willy pic with a caption describing what he would me like to do with it.   What is the matter with these people, why do they think sending a photo without invitation is in any way going to persuade me to meet.   I would never send anyone a photo of my tits with a caption ’suck these’.   Any pics I do send are very tasteful and my Coco de Mer lingerie has been admired by a very select few!

The rest of Saturday is very quiet.  I move from bed to the sitting room sofa and alternate between sleep and watching TV, something I do very little but as I am obviously very ill it seems the best thing to do.

3.15am on Sunday morning I’m woken from a deep sleep by my phone ringing.  I answer without looking at the name and hear wht sounds like my son’s voice, sounding very drunk.   I ask if he’s okay, what on earth is wrong and why he is ringing at this time.  He answers in a very slurred voice asking how I am and what I’m doing today.  I again ask what on earth is going on and he asks if I am busy on Sunday and would I like to go out with him.  Realising this cannot possibly be my son, I put on my glasses and realise it is someone nicknamed ‘the serial shagger’ after his antics at a recent party.   I end the call, I have no desire to meet him,  and immediately get a text message, this time from someone wondering if I’m awake and would like to chat.   I cannot believe I know so many insomniacs,  have people never heard of camomile tea to help them sleep!

Sunday morning I feel much better despite my interrupted sleep, maybe it’s not Swine flu after all and there is a good chance I will survive the weekend.   I spend the morning chatting to girlfriends and to my mother who gives me the usual emotional blackmail talk, telling me how many of her friends are being taken out to lunch by their families.  I make the usual reply that a five hour drive to take her out to lunch is an unrealistic prospect .  I’ve been invited to a garden party in the afternoon, not an exciting prospect but I have accepted the invitation so have to go.

I set off a little later than planned and it is only after driving for half an hour realise I have somehow taken the wrong road and am miles away in the wrong direction.  I think I really must concentrate more when driving.  I arrive at the party an hour late, they are waiting for me to arrive to sit down and eat.   I apologise profusely, take my place at the beautifully set table and, just as we are about to eat down comes the rain.  Everyone rushes indoors clutching plates and bowls and someone comments that had I arrived on time we could have eaten before the storm.  Oh dear!   I look suitably embarrassed but wonder how long it will be before I can escape.  I hear my phone beep in my handbag and, even though I know it will be frowned upon, I read the very naughty text which makes me laugh and brightens up the afternoon.   I reply asking the sender to keep on with the naughty texts to keep me sane and survive the excruciatingly boring lunch.  

I make my excuses to leave early explaining that I haven’t been feeling well all weekend, get home and spend the evening on the internet.  I think the weekend has really been a complete washout from start to finish and, if I allowed myself to let him out of the box I would definitely blame Mr N!

My Ms Naughty