Saturday, 25 September 2010

A New Leader And I Am Out Of My Depth In A Sea Of Vibrating Plastic.

I have never felt such an idiot in my life. And I am never going to Ann Summers again, either. What on earth is all that stuff for?

Everything's made of that nasty luminous plastic, like those horrible toys that the kids always insisted on putting on their Christmas lists. I used to ignore their pleas and get something wooden and tasteful from the Early Learning Centre instead, but I'm not sure what the Brio equivalent of the sex world is.

After Greg's texted me the leadership result, I am filled with the spirit of change. I realise that I need to take a new direction too, so I decide to surprise Max with something to liven up our sex life. Huh, talk about best-laid plans and all that.

I lurk around outside the shop for a while, and then make a dash for it when I think no-one is looking. As soon as I walk in, I am confronted by revolting-looking stuff - tons of it. I get quite dizzy. No wonder the psychologists say we're becoming stressed by having too much choice. Not to mention a shortage of clear instructions.

I do know what some of it is for - I'm not totally stupid - but there's a whole load of things that I have no idea what you're supposed to do with. This is very unnerving: I used to have my finger on the pulse! Now I feel like someone who is drowning, not waving.

To add insult to injury, who do I see at the counter when I approach the assistant for advice? Only Mr and Mrs Bloody Beales. Oh yuck.

How depressing is it that even Mr Beales has a better sex-life than me, judging by how much his carrier bag is bulging? I can't bear to think about it, especially as he actually winks at me as he walks out. My bowels are still clenching now.

The whole day is about sex in one way or another. And not in a good way, either. Dinah phones as I am trying to watch the X-Factor.

"It gets worse," she says.

"What does?" I have no idea what she's on about. Or what Louis Walsh means either, for that matter. He's so annoying. And that contestant is obviously a usual suspect. I can always tell the nutters before they even start to sing.

"P-ns nm," says Dinah. Or something like that. The Twilight Zone theme is a bit distracting.

"What did you say, Di?"

"Listen, for God's sake. Porn's name. Or names. Plural."

I forget to answer. Well, I don't - but with Dinah, you never know if a pause indicates your turn to speak, or whether she's just stopping to breathe in or light a cigarette.

"Wake up, Molly! Didn't you hear what I said?'

"Erm, yes. Double-barrelled. Porn," I say. This creates a thoroughly unpleasant image of Mr and Mrs Beales in the act, not for the first time today.

"Yes - guess what her other name is?" says Dinah. "I've just got off the phone to Dad. He's back."

"I don't know, Dinah. Why do I always have to guess? Can't you just tell me? It's been a bad day."

I might as well give up watching the X-Factor. I missed it last week too, due to the stupid TV aerial at David and Susie's cottage.

"Well, you've spoiled it now," says Dinah. "But I might as well tell you anyway. It's Poon!"

"Now you're really making it up," I say. "Don't be ridiculous. Poon? As in Poon-Tang?"

Josh looks up and makes a shocked face. Sometimes I'm sure he thinks I know nothing and that he is the product of an immaculate conception. Mind you, after the depths of my ignorance have been revealed by the Ann Summers experience, he may have a point.

"Yes, as in Poon-Tang," says Dinah. "Porn-Poon. That's our father's girlfriend's name. And I am not telling you anything else, as you are obviously not listening. Phone me when you can be bothered to give this the attention it deserves."

Seems to me that I've given this whole porn thing far too much attention today already. With very little reward, as far as I can see. I do hope the Party's attempt to change is going to be a lot more successful than mine. Maybe I should ask Ed what he suggests I buy.


  1. Painfully aware that a chap is alighting on the most salacious post for some time. Damp apologies.

    Well anyway. Old Girl (that's Truly Fair in earshot) has long held the view that a successful competitor to Ann Summers would only have to sell good quality & high class wares to reduce that tawdry cowboy outfit.

    This is not a moral comment on her part: it's about buying the bedroom equivalent of the classy office/party number that makes a girl feel good. As opposed to the luminous playground tat to which you refer.

    Disclosure: extended family owns [financially] worthless but attractive area of woodland at sweaty bottom end of M25. Have to pass Summers' HQ on approach when inspecting for fly-tipping and worse.

    Sorry about the hol and good to have you back.

  2. Ooh, what do you see when you pass their HQ? Always wondered what happens in their R&D department. (Not that I should encourage your salacious side.)

  3. Neither luminous nor plastic on the outside I'm afraid; just glassed, grey and dull.

    Mind you SOS Furniture Solutions next door would appear to be filling a fruitful niche in the market if a chap's salacious side may be allowed to comment.