Hope and Greenwood

Dear Johnnie Boden,

Imagine my excitement when my denim clamdiggers arrived! I poured myself into them without hesitation and pranced about my boudoir like a show pony.

Tragically I discover that the seam hugging my lady garden is askew, once aligned at the rear it is a good few inches west of central up front. I confess that I am usually a symmetrical lady, dressing neither to the left or right but straight down the middle.

I wonder if my spaniels have shifted with age, perhaps it is a direct result of too much testosterone in the water? I confess I have left the seat up lately and have taken to watching documentaries about super structures.

Clearly I am an anatomical freak, and I apologise for letting you down.

Thank goodness, Mr Boden, that you are practically perfect in every way.

Kind regards,

Miss Hope

‘Harumph,’ mumbles Mr. Same as-it-ever-was, as he emerges from the bathroom with Barges for Beginners tucked under his arm and his specs on the end of his nose, ‘I have just seen my back the mirror, I hadn’t realised I was so hairy.’

‘Indeed yes,’ I concur, ‘you are reminiscent of a silverback’.

‘Harumph.’

‘Shall I Veet you?’ I says.

‘How will you know where to stop?’ says monkey man.

Politeness overwhelms me and I don’t say, ‘When I get to your bald patch.’

‘Well, I could Veet you all over, whip you up like a pavlova?’

‘Bollocks,’ he grumbles.

‘Priority,’ says I.

We are in Norfolk and I am trapped with Mr Grumpytits, in a lovely cottage with a 14 person cheesecake, Brigadoon and a plastic tray of out of date Morrisons’ cheapo langoustines, ready to dance their lickle, pink legs all the way to the dustbin, high kicking on the acrid waves of their Best Before.

I am bored to death but I have options. I could watch Flog it/Cash in the Attic or text an answer to the This Morning quiz.

In a moment of desperation, I slam my bowl of coconut ice on the pouffe and suggest we go skinny dipping. When Mr.It-looks-like-rain-again, says, ‘yes’, I wonder if he has misheard, perhaps he thinks I have invited him to take a front row seat while I play squeal-piggy-squeal with the Deliverance halfwit, last spotted warming her spots by the local Spa hot pie cabinet.

We arrive at the beach and flip flop about 87 grillion miles along the shore. We whip off our cagoules and pose, unashamedly in the buff, save for our plimsolls.

I am star jumping on the shingle thrilled by the waft of cold air on my spaniels. Mr.G is running about like a big, pink baby, all fluff and turkey giblets.

We dash head long into the water, it is freezing.  Mr G’s 50% extra free Lion Bar shrivels to the size of a Walnut Whip and my lips are blue. He is screeching like a granny at the front door, discovering that the postman has stuffed more than the Readers Digest through her letterbox.

We turn and pelt back up the shore, leaping about for warmth, jumping up and down, our two tone, crab stickesque gooseflesh, blubbering about freely. Whose stupid idea was this anyway?

Suddenly Mr.Greenwood stiffens and points out to sea. There, bobbing no more that 100 yards away, is a Bean’s Seal Trips boat. Full of tourists, poised, their voyeur binoculars glinting in the sunlight.

Mr.G cups his manhood, waggles his whiskers and waves a friendly flipper, and I cannot think of more opportune moment to tie up my shoe laces.