Prude

There is a show at Earls Court this weekend called Erotica, a sale of sexuality where various contrivances are purchased in order to enhance that stale encounter between you and your loved one. Ironically the tagline of the event is 'for your imagination', which is not quite what making use of items others have thought up for you is all about is it? Surely the imaginative thing would be to do without and plow new furroughs... But of course, where is the cash in that? So here they sell enough appliances to run a kitchen, though you probably wouldn't want to eat there, and couples swan around gaping at various leather and plastic covered items, giggling and being oh so grown up about the whole thing. Sadly I can only read of these delights, for I have been working all weekend and am only aware of these festivities because of the number of red take-home bags being carried today on the underground. Two of these not-so-goody bags, these baddy-bags, belong to a quite absurdly repugnant couple, and a wave of nausea hits me as I contemplate the unthinkable. Hey, I know I shouldn't judge, and beauty is only skin-deep or whatever, but I'm shallow, and that skin is far enough for me my friend.