Travel sickness

The promise of a holiday has been in existence since the beginning of the year. Ever present but tantalisingly out of reach; always just too far ahead to get excited about. As work has become increasingly stressful I have stolen just a few minutes to look again at the web page; at the beautiful house with its private beach and boat house. "Almost holiday-time", we'd tell each other, when the daily grind became almost too much to bear. "Only seven more sleeps!" we celebrated, like children, when marital ships passing in the night became ships who never even docked in the same place (except occasionally in the kitchen, as regular readers will know). A whole week together as a family.

Catering for marital sex

Yesterday the Husband and I seized the moment and had sex in the kitchen. This is not the first time it has happened there; it's not that there's anything particularly erotic about our kitchen, simply that we tend to be in there at the same time, which is a rarity nowadays.

Half-way through (not that I knew it was half-way through at the time; it could have been barely past the opening act. It's always tricky to tell) I absent mindedly reached out to stir the risotto.

"What are you doing?"

"Stirring the risotto - it was starting to stick"

"It's not very passionate, is it?

I put down my wooden spoon and gave a few gasps of enjoyment.

"Now you're just being silly"

"Well, what do you want me to do, then?"

"There has to be a middle ground, surely? I mean, somewhere between the Meg Ryan impression and the Jamie Oliver?"

"Nigella?"

"Now you're talking..."

I moaned a little, and licked chicken stock from my index finger. It didn't really work for either of us.