But whither the spaniels of wonderment and delight, where are the gambolling puppies of our wanton desires to lead us today, and… well, is that the time? Must get on, must muck out the lawyers before the entire lawyer sty is knee-deep in discarded writs and other less pleasant effluvia.
There was a time… there was a time… there was a time when Maureen and I were both as young and in love as any couple in any advertisement for perfumery or confectionary, and yet… and yet. We have grown older, inevitably, now, and - I like to think - a little wiser.
For us though still there is still the intense throb of anticipation as the summer open-air orgy season draws ever closer to its climax. This year, however, many of our mid-week Open-Air Village Green Orgies been somewhat marred, for despite the earnest proclamations of the weather presenters – gravid or otherwise - on the late evening news that we are going through an unseasonably warm spell, for, to us gathered naked - or suitably fetish-geared - on the Little Frigging village green, it has seemed more to be unseasonably cold than unseasonably warm.
Only last Thursday, for instance we had to warm the erotic unguents over a gently simmering Uncle Stagnant to get them to flow with the necessary ease to lubricate the small woodland mammals necessary for a fully perverse evening under the stars and between the cake shop manageress and our own local librarian.