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Wednesday 9th January 2008: I’ve posted another chapter of autobiography, a continuation of Achilles, better late than never I say. This writing game, recalling memories and recounting them isn’t as easy as it might seem. Click here for Achilles part two. Thursday 10th January 2008: It’s surprisingly easy to fall out of the habit of writing and journaling. Over the past couple of weeks I’ve thought about doing it, but not acted on it. I sometimes think that this online blogging business isn’t actually conducive to the continuance of the art of diary keeping, there’s a disheartening aspect to it that you don’t get when you keep a private diary, especially an old fashioned one that involves pen to paper. The latter is simply you in conversation with yourself and your confessor (the Diary) it’s a strictly limited interaction with no expectation of response. It’s satisfying in the respect that it gives you an opportunity not only to chart the mundane and less mundane aspects of your daily life without wondering whether it sounds boring, but also to make sense of things by taking them out of your head and examining them from a less involved perspective. I think, besides ego, that laziness is behind a lot of online diaries, certainly that was true for me, my handwriting is dreadful, but it needn’t be if I took the care, but the fact remains that it’s much easier to type than it is to take the time to write script properly. I can type several pages on the computer in the time it would take me to write a fluent paragraph by hand and yet there’s something, some element about writing by hand that’s lost when using an electronic medium. I think that missing element is creative intimacy, a warm link between you and the words you craft, and that’s why I often like to sit with a notebook and pencil scribbling down thoughts and ideas in preference to the cold efficiency of the computer keyboard. Any roads up, enough mulling. The weather here has been horrible for the past few days, wet, cold and very windy. I can just about cope with each on their own but in combination they really piss me off. Running is virtually impossible when it’s blowing a gale that drives sleet and rain through your body like steel rods. I fell over yesterday, a particularly strong gust of wind buffeted me and I lost my footing on the wet pavement, you don’t half feel a prat when you fall over. I got scant sympathy from the bf’s, they said it was stupid to be out running in such vile conditions anyway. We lost a couple of roof tiles on Monday night when it really stormed, but they’re fixed now and we’ve had the entire roof checked over and made sound. Christmas was generally good though very busy as we were hosting a lot this year, which meant piles of work for me, but then Christmas is one of the busiest times for those of us in the Domestic industry. I disgraced myself once after a row with Penny, she and the Muppet were with us for a full week, he’s okay really, but she’s a cow and she treats me like shit. I finally lost my temper, telling her to go fuck herself as it might put a smile on her miserable face; I also hurled a glass of wine across the kitchen at the same time. As you might guess the incident didn’t go down too well with Shane, or Dick for that matter, and it brought considerable grief my way on several counts. There were a few days following when sitting wasn’t entirely comfortable, it would definitely make a little chapter for the autobiog if I get round to it. I’m actually feeling quite nauseous, Dick’s had this stomach bug that’s been sweeping the nation and I suspect that it’s now about to sweep my way. Friday 11th January 2008: I was indeed swept over by the dreaded lurgy yesterday, but not to the extent that poor Dick was, he had the all dancing and all singing variety, or to be graphic, the all shitting all sicking variety. I felt sick and I had stomach pains and loose bowel movements, but that was it, though I still feel a bit ‘off’ and haven’t felt much like eating anything besides Rennie (the indigestion tablets not Reny the man I hasten to add, I wouldn’t eat him if he were smothered in Russian Caviar) Shane is still hale and hearty, he has the constitution of an ox, no stomach virus would dare infect him not without his written permission anyway. I was due to visit mum today, I usually do on a Friday, but I decided it would be best for me to steer clear until I’m certain I’m over this bug, I don’t want to risk passing it on to her, her immune system has enough to cope with. We chatted on the phone for a while instead and she sounded very up. Frank is taking her on a mini break next week to London to see the Tutankhamun Exhibition at 02 and also the Chinese Terracotta Army Exhibition at the British Museum. She’s really looking forward to it and I don’t blame her, those are two exhibitions that I’d really love to visit, truly awesome pieces of history. Dick and Shane are also interested and we’re going to arrange a trip down south at some point, so that should be good. The weather is better today, no rain and minimal wind, but still cold. I made utterances about going out for a run this morning, but decided against it after clocking the look that Shane gave me over the rim of his coffee cup, no words, just a look. I can’t lip read but by hell I can read eyes, especially Daddy eyes, his clearly stating, ‘go running while you’re off colour only if you wish to incur my deepest displeasure and have my boot make contact with your foolhardy arse.’ Makes sense I suppose and anyway I wouldn’t really have gone I just like to keep Shane on his toes and remind him of his duty of care towards his houseboy, it makes him feel all butch and me all cared for. I gave him a hug and kiss to show I was obedient to his will. After the bf’s had left for work I cleaned all the bathrooms and the kitchen like a man possessed in case the virus that caused the stomach upset was loitering around waiting to strike again, my eyes ended up watering with bleach and disinfectant fumes and I had to open all the windows. I detest the smell of bleach and no matter what scents the manufactures claim to disguise it with; such as lemon or lavender it still just reeks like plain unadulterated bleach. It’s a good job none of us smoke; one strike of a match and the whole place would have gone up as the fumes ignited. I’m going to sort out all our socks today and give them some marital counselling, what is about socks, they just can’t form lasting relationships, they don’t stay as a pair for long, they’re always splitting up. Dick had a right old sulk and strop this morning (though he preferred to see it as a legitimate complaint to the Household Manager) because he claimed that he had a drawer full of socks without partners and he wasn’t going to ruin his reputation for sartorial elegance by going to work wearing odd socks. It was the work of seconds to locate a pair by rummaging in Shane’s drawers to find one of the absent wanton hosiery, a slutty sock, nestling cosily where it shouldn’t have been. I swear I sort them all into the appropriate drawers, but sooner or later they end up doing the equivalent of wife swapping and hopping into another bed. They’re real swingers are socks! Well, I’d best go and do something appropriate in my capacity as HM. Sunday 13th January 2008: It’s been the usual kind of Sunday so far, we slept late, I made breakfast, the bf’s retired to the lounge to argue their way through the Sunday papers from front page to back page from politics to sport. I went out for a run then came back and showered making the mistake of bending over to retrieve the soap, Dick was there immediately. I didn’t mind. He’s been a tad grumpy lately with one thing and another so it was nice to have him back to his usual oversexed self. Stomach upset notwithstanding Dick has had a bit of a downer on his business partner Reny lately because he keeps going on about wanting to expand the company. Dick doesn’t think the company is ready for expansion, especially not on the scale that Reny envisages. Anyway things seemed to escalate yesterday morning when Dick went for his usual round of golf with Reny only to find himself being “coincidentally” introduced to a potential investor and possible third partner in the company. He wasn’t fair chuffed. Shane and I were enjoying a bit of a pet and snuggle on the couch when he arrived home and we both just about shit ourselves with fright as his car screeched furiously onto the drive, you could hear the gravel spraying up as he braked, it certainly put an effective break on our libido. Dick has an essentially calm and patient personality, but like most of us he has his moments when temper gets the better of him. After slamming the front door just about off its hinges he headed straight for the drinks sideboard in the dining room ignoring Shane’s request to enlighten him as to what the problem was. Worse still he countered a sharp observation that whisky wouldn’t make any better of whatever was bothering him with an equally sharp, “I don’t require a recitation of AA fucking platitudes Shane, I just want a fucking drink, if that’s alright with you of course?” In a twinkling Shane wasn’t Shane anymore and Dick wasn’t Dick and Daddy coldly told Richard that yes, him having a drink was perfectly alright by him, he then turned to me and said, ‘be a good lad and make Richard a cup of tea while he and I have a little chat.’ This houseboy didn’t need to be asked twice. I left closing the door behind me as Daddy let Richard know that he wouldn’t tolerate being spoken to like that under any circumstances. It was a short sharp mainly verbal reprimand and afterwards, while sipping his tea and holding me as a comforter Dick talked out the grievances of his morning. Shane said that he suspected Reny’s wife Angela was partly to blame for the current situation as she’s always conniving and trying to influence the way the company is run. I can’t stand acid Angela so I was more than willing to agree. We’re having a late Sunday lunch with HIM and Mike today, thankfully leather clad Jak won’t be there, he’s away at some unicycling and juggling convention, yes, such things do exist, unicycling is apparently big business and nutters the world over gather to ride their wheel while juggling their balls. Apparently world champion unicyclist Connie Cotter will be there, what a thrill eh? I wonder what category Jak will enter, the BDSM Ball Gag And Butt Plug Class…watch in wonder as Jak mounts his unicycle in a way never seen before while tossing his balls hard and high. I’m being bawled for. Monday 14th January 2008: If I don’t get my hands on my booky wook soon there’s going to be trouble, it was my Chrissie pressie and I want it back. The Booky Wook in question is the autobiography written by Russell Brand and whimsically and with typical eccentricity entitled: ‘My Booky Wook.’ Eileen gifted it to me for Christmas after I mentioned that I wouldn’t mind reading it. It’s a good read too, judging from the few chapters that I’ve actually managed to peruse without the wook in question being purloined by Dick or Shane who initially turned their noses up at it (oh, no, not Russell Brand, he’s too gay, even if he isn’t) Dick took it to work today, he actually took it to work and he didn’t even ask, I was foaming. He said I was a possessive little bastard and he didn’t hiss and spit and rant and stamp when I hijacked his reading material. Yes, but, I usually waited for him to read it first. What I like about Russell Brand is that he’s a bit of a wordsmith and a language manipulator, I like his clever flamboyant style and he tells a good story though you have to wonder, given his personality, how much is essentially true and how much is grand poetic licence and a sweeping imagination, not that it matters because as I said, he tells a good story and he carries you along with him. I’ve got plans for Russell tonight, the only one he’ll be going to bed with is me, and there’d better be no reading over shoulders from one half of my better half and no interjecting from the other half, though when it comes to Dick you have to expect some interjecting, he just can’t help himself. I’ll make sure there are some tissues handy. Friday 18th January 2008: I watched Jamie Oliver’s programme about the horrors of the poultry industry last week and in the aftermath tried to convince Shane to let me keep hens, my argument being that our back garden was plenty big enough to accommodate a small henhouse and we’d always know the source of our eggs and Sunday roast and revel in the knowledge of its superior welfare before having its neck wrung. Shane was less than enthusiastic; his argument being that it was a stupid idea. I could buy organic free range by all means, but no way was he having hens tearing up the garden and shitting everywhere, bringing down the value of the property, the neighbours would be up in arms and signing a petition to have the hens removed and us along with them, and anyway if he knew me I’d make pets of the bloody things and kick up a storm when it came to necking one for the dinner table. So, there ended my romantic idea of being Gillibran Brown the humane chicken farmer. I do tend to buy organic free range meats whenever I can, money being no obstacle, and I suppose I’m lucky that I can do that, but I can also remember what it was like to be so hard up that you really didn’t have the luxury of wondering or caring about where the food you ate came from or how it had been treated beforehand. Conscience comes at a cost and not everyone can afford to heed that conscience. Shane has been a tad difficult to live with this week if truth was known. I’ve had my ears scorched a couple of times for displeasing him. There’s something going on with his dad, there has been for a while but no one quite knows what it is. Penny has been bleating in his ear non-stop since she went home after Christmas. He no sooner settles down to relax on an evening than she’s on the phone. He was a bit short with her last night and she hung up on him. In the spirit of helpfulness I said that to my mind Penny tried to interfere far too much in her father’s life and that her constant attempts to organise him got on his nerves and it was no wonder he didn’t like letting her in his house or answering her phone calls. Shane sharply told me that he didn’t appreciate me using the situation as an excuse to slag off his sister; it was helpful to no one. I took offence and begged his pardon for breathing then flounced out of the room slamming the door behind me. Shane is not tolerant of people with a door-slamming propensity. In his opinion slamming the door simply because I didn’t like the fact that he’d reprimanded me showed not only incredible immaturity, it showed a level of disrespect towards him that he couldn’t ignore. Being an old fashioned kind of Daddy there was only one way to deal with disrespectful boys in his book and that was to take down their pants and put them over the knee for a sound spanking. To be honest I suppose I do look for excuses to have a bite at Penny, I just dislike her so much. It’s actually Shane’s birthday today, but there’s no celebration as he headed off to see his troublesome Pa straight from work. He’s staying overnight and coming home tomorrow. We’ll have a proper birthday celebration for him tomorrow evening; just a few friends round for a dinner party. Dick is complaining that I’ve had all day to talk to the wretched computer and it’s time for me to come off and talk to him. Suits me, I’m looking forward to having him all to myself in bed tonight. Saturday 19th January 2008: I must confess to being slightly disappointed to wake up this morning and find that we were surrounded by some rather fine weather. The sun was bright and if not warm then at least not cold. It smiled down, benevolently highlighting the pale green shoots of various flower bulbs pushing their way above ground, as if Spring was proudly saying, ‘look, I’ll be back soon.’ Far from being pleased I felt like complaining to the met office for failing to divvy up the promised rain and gales. Why was I disappointed? Because, as Dick said when I groused to him over fresh breakfast coffee and croissants, I’m a selfish possessive little bastard that’s why and if it had been raining heavily enough to float an ark and blowing a force nine gale, as promised, he wouldn’t have headed off to the golf course to smack little white balls with a long hard pole. I didn’t see why he couldn’t just stay home and smack my balls with his pole. He said that if his company meant that much to me why didn’t I caddy for him, he’d love to have me alongside. I declined saying I would rather perform a sex change op on myself using a pair of rusty shears than caddy for him. He is hell to caddy for, a ruthless slave driver who makes Shane look like a little pink poodle in comparison. Honest, I’m not kidding, Dick undergoes a terrible transformation once he gets on a course with a golf club in his hand, all gentleness vanishes, he’s Jekyll and Hide, and it’s usually my hide that suffers, so no, this houseboy point blank refuses to caddy for Daddy. It’s just coming up to half past 12 here, so I’d better make a move. Dick will be back from conquering the golf course and expecting lunch any time soon and I’ve got to make a start on preparations for dinner this evening. I’m trying a new recipe: Partridge with Moroccan spices and roast vegetables, it sounds nice, but a bit finicky to prepare. Dick and Shane personally killed the birds I’ll be using on that last shoot they went on with Leo, so I suppose you can’t get more organic and free range than that. Tuesday 22ndJanuary 2008: I had the oddest experience last night, really, I’m not kidding it was very, very queer. I was reading my Booky Wook in bed when who should stride into the bedroom but Aragorn from LOTR’s. I stared in dumbstruck silence as he withdrew his magnificent sword and ordered, “I BID YOU STAND MEN OF THE WEST!” Well, I didn’t need to be bidden twice not with him dripping sexy sweat and pheromones all over the bedroom rug, he could be Lord of my ring any day of the week, consequently I stood so hard and so fast I was in danger of piercing my naval with my own particular sword. We were really getting it on; he’s a fabulous kisser is Viggo, when two men suddenly charged into the bedroom claiming to be magistrates and saying I was under arrest for being a Molly. To my horror, it was true, I was a Molly complete with elaborate frock, wig and heavy make up. I was gob smacked. When the hell had I turned into an eighteenth century transvestite and where the hell had Aragorn disappeared to? Next thing I know there’s a rope around my neck and I’m in process of being hung for sexual depravity and crimes against God and Nature. Just as I thought I was going to die Dick and Shane, my heroes, arrived on scene and…woke me up demanding to know why I was screaming and writhing around like a madman…yep, it was all a dream, but what a vivid one. I watched The Return Of The King yesterday afternoon and then City Of Vice last night, so obviously my sleeping brain improvised a scenario based on what I’d exposed it to. After watching the latter programme, which last night was centred around the Molly Houses of London in the eighteenth century, I have to say I felt extremely grateful that I was born a gay man in this century and not in any other, certainly not then when love between two men was a hanging offence. We may have some way to go as far as total acceptance of homosexuality is concerned, but on the other hand, we’ve made great strides, though it terrifies me to know that some would gladly return to those hate filled, cruel and ignorant times. The programme upset me, so no wonder I dreamed about it. Mind you, there was a certain kink fuelled gleam in Dick’s eye this morning, as I described the latter half of my dream and the outfit I’d been wearing that caused stirrings of unease within me, and rightly so as he went on to say that he bet I looked very pretty as a Molly boy. I did some prompt bud nipping briskly stating that no fucking way was I EVER donning a frock in real life, not for Dick, not for anyone. My credit card statement came in yesterday, which is one reason I indulged in a spot of fantasy film watching, anything to take my mind of what appeared to be a fantasy account balance. I’ve shoved it in a drawer along with some magic beans in the hope it will disappear or the beans will turn into golden eggs that I can flog to pay it off. Shane’s birthday celebration didn’t go quite as planned, but I haven’t got time to write about it as we’re off out this evening and already I can sense my two gearing up to demand…GILLI, WHERE’S MY…etc. Friday 25th January 2008: I’m a bit annoyed today and I’m afraid I’m going to have to have a rant. I recently changed my web address, for a variety of reasons, and updated to a pay site to see if Yahoo would deign to answer any of my emails regarding their service and the fact that in the main it wasn’t up to scratch. Low and behold money does talk, they did indeed reply, it didn’t help any, but they at least acknowledged my existence, in fact I’ve had two emails asking me to give fb to their reply and its efficacious usefulness, naturally I shall not reply, let’s see how they like being ignored for a change. I could have changed to another web host, but after trying a few decided that despite their shite customer service Geocities is easy to use on the whole and suits my needs. I privately gave a couple of people my new site address, but didn’t list it in the Geocities member pages. However I have just discovered that someone has posted the url on a public group. Whoever obtained and posted it didn’t have the common courtesy to ask if I minded. I do mind actually, I mind very much that someone thought it was okay to put something that I own up for public grabs without at least asking if I had any objections. I don’t mind people reading my diary, of course I don’t, not at all, I wouldn’t have put it online otherwise, you’re welcome, but I really do think it’s for me to decide when and where I publicise my site. I’m sorry to rant on, but I do think there’s a real deficit of good manners in this online world we inhabit, people assume that because they have ownership of a computer that they kind of own everything they access on it, not true I’m afraid. It’s like seeing a person in the street and assuming that just because you recognise them from a porno site you visit that you have some claim on their body and a free fuck is your due right without even the courtesy of asking first. Anyway, I’ll shut up now; I just needed to get that off my chest. We’ve got some pretty damaging gales blowing around here at the moment; the garden is strewn with broken branches and shattered plant pots, but nothing too major, unlike poor Eileen who lost her greenhouse when a door, yes, a door, crashed through it in the early hours of this morning. The door in question belongs to Eileen’s neighbour who for reasons known only to himself had it stashed on his shed roof (why not IN the shed or besides the shed) The wind flipped it up and over and through into Eileen’s garden where it crash landed on the greenhouse. She’s not too pleased about it, and who can blame her. Monday 28th January 2008: I’m over my site strop, as Dick frequently likes to remind me, I’m a possessive little bastard, over anything and everything. Shane had an early meeting today, one that entailed travelling to Hexham so he had to be up even earlier than per norm and believe me per norm is early enough, especially on these dark winter mornings. Him getting up earlier than per norm meant that yours truly had to be up even per earlier than per norm. I must admit that I griped rather badly over it, which was stupid of me really. Shane has little patience with moaning and I took delivery of a large ear flea as he sharply reminded me that it was my job to serve the needs of hearth, home and husbands, or words to that effect. I took the huff and adopted a martyr like approach to making breakfast, you know the kind of thing, heavy silence, heavily setting things onto the table, heavy sighing, heavy looks. We all have our moments of martyrdom and it’s funny how some days are more conducive to it than others. In this morning’s case I was a living example of someone who had gotten out of bed on the wrong side. Shane’s response was hypercriticism; in short we rubbed each other up the wrong way. He observed that my hair could do with a trim; it was beginning to look messy and not in a good way. I sassily stated that I was growing it, I fancied going metal head or heavy rock before I got too old for anything but a side parting. His response was to calmly repeat his assertion that my hair could do with a trim. I said something about Dick liking me to wear my hair a little longer to which Shane said: tough. Finally my jeans annoyed him. They were the straw that broke the bear’s back. I was making French toast with a twist, the twist being that I top it with slices of flash grilled smoked salmon, a touch of crème fraiche and a squeeze of lemon. After separating a few slices of salmon and slipping them under the grill I wiped my fingers down the sides of my jeans, as you do, or at least I do. Shane did not approve, barking that one did not wipe one’s oily fishy fingers on one’s clothes one used a damp cloth or a bit of hygienic kitchen roll. He then noted that the jeans in question were ‘as a matter of fucking fact’ distinctly grubby and demanded to know how long they’d been hugging my arse. I must admit that his sophistic observation held some water, my jeans were a bit grubby, in fact they were a cosmos of stains that were in danger of developing life forces all their own. Unlike the bf’s, who are both fuss pots and spoiled with it, I’m of the opinion that workaday jeans need only be laundered on high days and holidays or when they actually throw themselves into the washing machine with their pockets full of Persil. It’s a habit, a bad habit I suppose that dates back to when I only owned one pair of jeans at a time and had no such luxury as a washing machine, never mind a serf to operate it for me. Dick is the worst, he only has to pick an item of clothing out of his wardrobe for him to decide its dirty and needs laundering, he’d soon change his tune if he had to wash and iron it himself. Anyway, Shane was disgusted when I confessed that I’d been wearing the jeans since last year, which sounds bad I know, but last year isn’t yet that far away. I think I put them on clean just before New Year. It cut no ice that I mainly wore them around the house and for cooking in. In his view they were filthy germ carriers and I was to get them off pronto and in the wash and for future reference he expected me to be decently presented at all times. I dug my stubborn heels in, mulishly declaring that I’d put them in the wash later. He repeated his instruction to get them off now. I repeated my declaration that I’d take them off later. He didn’t ask again. There was a brief and very undignified struggle that ended up with me standing, somewhat breathlessly, in the kitchen clad only in a pair of briefs and a tee. The disputed jeans were banished to the mucky laundry basket and after etching several hand signatures onto my bum and the backs of my thighs he sent me to put on fresh ones. Dick, still cosily abed, was no help he said that if I insisted on doing a bit of early morning bear baiting by flouting his standards then I shouldn’t whine when I got what I asked for, an arse mauling, and anyway Shane was right, I was a dirty little sod for wearing the same jeans for weeks on end. Bloody businessmen, put two of them together in the same house and they form a united front against the plebeian masses, or mass in my case. I put on fresh jeans; I must admit they felt nice, less crunchy and stiff. I returned to the kitchen where my fussy Daddy was just finishing his morning repast and was awaiting a refill of his coffee cup, the arduous journey across to the percolator being obviously too much for him to undertake without a Sherpa guide. I refilled his cup and got one for myself and then thumped my cleanly jeaned arse onto a chair and pouted at him. A broad grin suddenly spread across his face and he shook his head telling me that I was the most awkward, bolshie, high maintenance little bugger he had ever met and it was a good job I was cute with it. Suddenly getting up an ungodly hour didn’t seem too bad and all ire left me. Any and all shows of affection from Shane make me happy. We kissed and made up. It’s been a nice day here today, still windy but mild and bright. I got all our bedding washed and out on the line and a heap of towels, we seem to get through more towels per day than a flaming large hotel. My tooth has started aching a bit. I think I might have cracked a filling, we had pheasant last night and I bit down on a bit of shot, I hate doing that, apart from anything else it puts me off eating and I start poking through my food looking for more booby traps. It’s the pheasant’s revenge. I think a visit to the dentist is on the cards. Wednesday 30th January 2008: I’ve done bugger all worth talking about today. I answered a few emails this morning (btw my email address seems to be regarded as Spam by Charter.net and is blocked and returned as undeliverable, I’m not ignoring anyone) but basically all I’ve done since then is drink tea and read porno stories on the net. The bf’s would tan me if they knew (plus Dick would want to enact some of them with me) I couldn’t even be arsed to go out for a run, so now I’m feeling guilty, lazy and a slob. My tooth is still aching off and on, but I haven’t got round to making an appointment with my ham fisted dentist yet. The tea drinking is Penny’s fault; she gave me this big box of assorted posh teas by Whittard of Chelsea for Christmas. It was one of those gifts that when you open it invokes neither a positive nor negative response, you don’t love or hate it, you just can’t help but think that the person who gave you it must have won it in a raffle. I also suspected that there was an ulterior motive to her gift and that it was some kind of sly comment about the quality of tea I serve in my capacity as housekeeper and kitchen serf. I said as much to the lordly ones who both agreed that I was a paranoid, ungrateful touchy sod. Anyroads up, as is often the case with such gifts, you actually end up enjoying it more than some of the gifts that initially evoked a much more enthusiastic response. The box comprises a variety of teas from around the world and I’m working my way through them all. So far my favourite, and Dick’s, is Russian caravan tea, it has a nice sort of malty flavour. Shane’s preference is the lighter Darjeeling tea, the so-called champagne of teas (learn all about tea with Gillibran Brown) Today; I’ve had Russian, Kenyan, Jasmine, Earl Grey and Assam. The Russian is still my favourite, I’m a sucker for anything warm strong and malty and I could be very smutty here, only I can’t be bothered, all that porn reading has left me wrung out, and you can make of that comment what you will. ;-) I’d better shift my arse and do something or I’ll be in trouble later. |
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