A fairy tale

Is it wrong to have a fantasy about going down to the local bakery, picking up fresh blue poppy seed baps, putting it in my bicycle’s front basket alongside a bunch of fresh wild flowers, and a slim volume of poetry? Is it so wrong? I can see myself riding through the village, enjoying the first day of spring, with that fresh smell of new season air. I would be greeted by all the villagers. Indeed I would stop, listening to a funny story or consoling someone.Finally when I got to my cottage, I could finally have a well deserved cup of tea and a slice of home made cake. There I would open the diary my husband and I share and sort out our busy week. From there I’d study and then move onto a little writing. (Three years later I would be blinking into the bright lights of a camera saying ‘I never thought I’d win the booker’.)

Getting up, a little bit stiff, I’d walk down the path at the end of my garden, taking care on the steps, to the beach for a quick swim. Soon dusky light would dim my arts and crafts cottage and the familiar sound of my lover’s footsteps would come through the window. He would look tired from his day, but still ruggedly handsome. An hour and a half later, after supper, we would be snuggling, taking turns to read to each other in a Bloomsbury style manner. And then... and then he’d shag me senselessly until I was dumbfounded but perfectly happy.

My fantasy seems to be based on either being a vicar’s or doctor’s wife living in a village in England. Unfortunately, I am a 30 year old bald, hairy chested, homosexual.

Although in some ways I am 30 going on 65. I like Lesley Garrett, I get excited at the thought of making a scrapbook, and I do like old ladies. I also like Lavender shower gel (ahem), stately homes and cream teas. And I haven’t had sex for a year. (Although in saying that I read that 55+ people are enjoying a sex life and getting the clap!)

So perhaps I am 65. Although I haven’t had the clap. But I do have to pee a lot.