Can't sleep....

I've had a mixed weekend - Wilf was unavailable so yesterday I went on a walking tour of Upper Helsham with Mother and her group. Later I attended one of the group's 'Farewell to Last of The Summer Wine' party. It was more fun than you could ever imagine, Mrs Fairweather-Lowe dressed up as Nora Batty and Mrs Clapton donned a mini skirt and boob tube to impersonate Marina. Mother wore a pair of old tweeds pulled high up her body, a torn tank top and wellies as a tribute to her favourite character, the dearly departed Compo. We drank, as you would expect, a case of English wine, which was pretty dreadful but at 12 per cent proof, who flipping cares?

I now can't sleep due to suffering a terrible headache all day which even paracetamol couldn't shift. I keep thinking about Mr A - he's based in London for the next couple of weeks, so I may mosey down to his desk at some point.

The return of Mr A

I was happily devising a new pie chart to show how many KW of energy ten civil servants save by using the lift instead of the stairs when a familiar shadow loomed over my desk. Mr A, resplendent in an expensive looking taupe linen suit decided to honour me with a flying visit prior to returning to Brussels in a fortnight's time. He looked fairly dejected and the bags under his eyes were giving him a tired look he'd never exhibited before. Apparently it transpired that he'd ended things with Marta when she proceeded to get drunk aboard the Orient Express (the very trip which he'd promised me!) and mock Mrs A's decision to wear compression socks on a train journey "she was't best pleased Margaret!" was his droll comment.

I allowed him to take me to lunch - he offered to pay and the pie chart wasn't proving a particularly thrilling midday companion. We went to Carlucci's nearby and dined on tagliatelle, salad and a carafe of Frascati. Mr A asked after me and I told him about Wilf, my Father's obsession with burrowing underground and my Mother's love of new age theories. He looked pensive and stated that he'd worked with Wilf ten years ago and he always thought there was something a little strange about him! Pot calling kettle methinks!

After completing our meal with a complementary After Eight, he kissed me before returning to the tube station. I'd like to say that I didn't enjoy it and it meant nothing to me, but I can honestly say that would be a lie.

Midlands Motor Museum and 'Mavis'

Wilf picked me up at the unearthly hour of 6:30am this morning so that we could journey to the Midlands Motor Museum in Dudley, the home of his beloved double decker bus, Mavis. When we arrived at 9:57am, having stopped at a Welcome Break service station for a much needed Ginster's steak slice and latte en route, my beau was treated like royalty. We were given a guided tour of the whole museum by the curator David Frobisher who asked whether Wilf would honour us by allowing Mavis to be used as part of the Dudley Retro Festival. When he answered in the affirmative I noticed a bearded gentleman in overalls giving Wilf a filthy stare. When I tackled him about this later over a warming plate of beans and toast in the cafe Wilf told me that there was a huge rivalry between the bus, coach and tram community and that the latter tended to be more aggressive regarding getting their vehicles into the public eye.

Wilf dropped me off in Dudley town centre in the afternoon to do some shopping and handed me £200 in cash, which was generous of him. He then returned to the museum to 'carry out essential repairs' as he put it. After purchasing an £18 cardigan from M&S and a pair of flat fronted trousers from Debenhams I was rather tired and was glad that Wilf arrived to take us back to our hotel at 3:45. I am now writing this from the wifi enabled lounge of The Dudley Royal Hotel which boasts links with Queen Elizabeth I who, according to the aged looking computer print out in reception, was supposed to have enjoyed a jacuzzi bath with suitor Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester in the Royal Suite.

Tonight's the night (with John Barrowman)

I've eaten dinner (Fray Bentos tinned pies - yummy!), washed, dried and buffed up the glassware and settled down on the settee to watch my series stack of 'Tonight's the Night'. So far so good you may think? I'm either going off of him or my tastes are changing because after 30 minutes of his gurning face appearing on the screen, I had to turn it off. It's a shame because I used to love his extensive repotoire of singing, dancing and generally mincing across the studio.

I think I'll watch the episode of Bergerac I recorded from Alibi this morning. I do love Mr Nettles circa 1986, he's so tanned, fit and lovely! Toodle pip!

Mortified is not the word

My cheeks are still burning with shame. After the key turned in the lock Wilf and I struggled into our clothes to find Mother and the various members of the local Change4Life walking group assembled in our living room. Obviously this isn't a usual occurance on a Sunday, but apparently from September onwards they're all going to take it in turns to host a movement and music class in one another's homes. The only proviso being that the householder must sign a letter to confirm that they can endorse an underlay thickness of at least 2.5cm to ensure a springy tread underfoot.

Mother took the trouble to introduce everyone; one spritely bespectacled gentlemen called Mr Fisher asked us if we were keen on unclothed yoga as he'd heard on an episode of QI that the literal meaning of gymnasium was 'naked'. I answered that we weren't, but Wilf's parents were keen on naturism, which led to a lively debate about the inadequacy of sock and underwear elastic in this day and age.

Once everyone had left Mother took me to one side and asked whether Wilf and I could rein in our baser instincts as she'd measured the cracks in the dining room getting larger by the week. Also, she was fed up with the sheer amount of talcum powder was being used in the household and wondered whether to add a supplement of such sundries to my monthly keep?

Sunday dinner disaster

Wilf arrived chez Weaver at 11am replete with a bottle of Cabernet Merlot and a bunch of mixed stems. I welcomed him in and introduced him to Mother who provided him with a cordial welcome, which was good considering the circumstances. Despite leaving tempting food instead the shed, we couldn't summon Father's prescence, but I'm sure he'll be available to meet Wilf at a later date.

We ate a pot roasted chicken for lunch. The wine flowed and Mother particularly enjoyed hearing stories about Wilf's parents' garden folly which is growing higher by the month apparently. Mother had prepared dessert: a Bird's trifle with extra dream topping, which went down very well.

At 3:30pm Mother decided to go for her daily constitutional in nearby Parveyvale Park, so after we'd washed up the last of the plates, Wilf led me upstairs to my bedroom. Despite only having a single bed, allied to the discomfort of frolicking on candlewick, Wilf managed to retain his normal standard of lovemaking, although Bagpuss's diapproving looks from the shelf put him off of his stroke a bit, so all was well until we heard a key in the front door....

A weekend at home

To ensure the neighbours don't think that I've been abducted by aliens or sold into slavery, I've returned home for the weekend. Father's still living in the shed but I managed to coax him into the house earlier by leaving a saucer of milk on a plastic plate attached to a long piece of string. It seemed to work and we had a short conversation before he disappeared back into the shed and ultimately into his underground network. He's not looking well and the close fitting velvet suit he's sporting gives him the look of a dishevelled mole.

Mother's out with her new fancy man according to our opposite neighbour, Mrs Dawson whose twin sister Mrs Beavour confirmed that she'd seen the pair of them queuing outside the fish and chip shop last Friday "they'd ordered hake apparently," she confided as her son's football coach doubles as a potato boy at busy periods.

Wilf's visiting tomorrow so I am going to roast a chicken in his honour. Will Mother return from her romantic jaunt in time and do half-mole-half-man creatures eat anything apart from earthworms?

The Buckhurst Bucknaked Church’s baptism

Now I can finally haul myself out of Wilf's bed, here's my account of Sunday's baptism:

Attending my first naturist baptism is an experience I’d recommend to those of a strong constitution. It’s fun, but only if you’re a bit tipsy. Wilf woke me up with a potent combination of a red rose, a full English breakfast and his erect manhood, which was somewhat unexpected, but rather thrilling. He told me that his parents would be travelling via minibus but they’ve been told to remain clothed, lest the apolstory should suffer and the deposit be rendered null and void as a result.

When we arrived there was already a trestle table set up on the beach with a small running buffet and a group of naked people were milling about. Wilf introduced me to his parents Simone and David, although naked they were very welcoming and friendly and teased Wilf for remaining in his clothes, a fact he soon rectified by stripping off immediately. I must admit that I haven’t had a great deal of experience of seeing the male member unclothed, apart from seeing classical statues and a glimpse of Kevin Bacon emerging from the shower in the film ‘Wild Things’ but Wilf seemed enormous. I won’t write any more as I’m embarrassed, but he was incredibly well toned.

The religious leader or ‘Mogi’ as we were instructed to call him turned up 20 minutes later, dressed in a surplus and very little else, gave a short sermon about casting out evil and proceeded to lead the faithful into the sea. I noticed that one of his assistants was swinging an incense holder about – surely that’s a little dangerous given the lack of clothes sported by the congregation?

After sampling the running buffet which I only nibbled at given the hygiene issues surrounding the whole event I drank a little too much wine. Wilf (now dressed in a pair of cut off shorts and a t-shirt) offered to walk me back to the B&B, whilst Simone and David clipped their money belts around their respective waists and headed for the nearby amusement arcades.

Post coital bliss

I can't say that I've had much time to write my blog lately because of the intense passion which has enveloped me since my trip to Shoreham last weekend. Sufficed to say I can finally understand what people are talking about when they speak of true passion and Wilf is the most considerate of lovers, although he's keen for me not to write too much detail on my blog as he fears it will betray his bedroom secrets to the internet community.

Note to self: buy some cranberry juice.

The Shoreham Experience

Sometimes I'm surprised about the things I sign up for in life and this trip to Shoreham is a prime example. From the moment Wilf picked me up in his newish Audi I knew things would change between us. The drive, although picturesque, was fairly uneventful and we arrived at half two. Wilf had booked a room in the Old Knocking Shoppe B&B, stating that he would have booked two rooms if they'd been available, but there was a party of octogenarian retired monkey handlers staying at the same establishment.

That didn't really matter to me, we had a lovely afternoon wandering around the old town and even exchanged a few kisses whilst waiting for twenty minutes for the level crossing to clear. The highlight of the afternoon was visiting the Museum of Seaside Windbreaks, which was particularly illuminating.

We had a lovely dinner and I drank more wine than usual. When we returned to the B&B it was very romantic. We didn't do much, but Wilf's very considerate and propped the 'Dorking Kingsbury Book of Lady Pleasure' up on the bedside table so that he could correctly locate my erogenous zones. He's a very thorough man on that score and has even stuck post it notes on pages of interest.

Shoreham baptism weekend

This weekend's going to be 'interesting' Wilf's picking me up at midday and we're motoring down to the coast. "Remain broad minded" was his plea, I wonder why?

The world of classical music

Now I'm no classical afficiando, but when Wilf produced two tickets to a concert in St-Martin-in-the-Fields yesterday I was more than pleased. Beforehand we went for a romantic picnic and drank some 'wine based drink' purchased from Sainsbury's which was at best foul and at worst, like drinking petrol, but what do you expect for the princely sum of £2.50 per bottle?

The church was fairly packed out, but Wilf and I snuggled into our side pew. There were a myriad of odd people there: one gentleman was so old we thought he'd expire before the end and one man so fat, he had trouble squeezing into his seat. The German pianist was fairly accomplished and even cracked a few jokes between the Chopin and the Beethoven. The second half was slightly marred by a rather odd fellow who insisted on filling the neighbouring pew with all of his shopping. That being said, we had a good time and I'm really looking forward to the weekend baptism in a few days time.

Pesky children: day two

Well, I won't say that I'm glad to see the back of young Sebastian today, but I am. He insisted in shouting 'choo choo train' whilst I was trying to watch the episode of 'Midsomer Murders' I recorded last Wednesday, which is unacceptable in my book. He then disappeared out of the room for about half and hour, but by then I'd started to worry so I searched for him and found him upstairs, de-robing my precious collection of classic Barbie dolls, but luckily I managed to find both of Crystal Barbie's shoes underneath my chest of drawers.

I decided to amuse him by trying to engage him in crayoning and painting, but he wasn't very interested. He did love flicking paint though and my favourite M&S top has been permanantly stained by his actions. Mother and her friend Mr Gluckenheim took him to the park in the afternoon, so I had time to update my John Nettles scrapbook, which had been sorely neglected in the last few weeks.

Eleanor arrived to pick him up (Sebastian, not John Nettles!) at 6:30pm. She didn't look much slimmer. I suggested a Miss Mary of Sweden corset, but she didn't appreciate the thought.