081009 the barreness

My reputation at work as a sex maniac is really not helping. I’ve been known to shout at the top of my lungs my tale of bewoed barren-ness.

My new alter-ego – the barreness.

Anyway, today a group of cheerful housing officers asked me if I would like some children. I replied that I would need someone to put something inside me first and then I’d think about it. They decided I must have no end of offers, just hadn’t met the right man yet. That would be any man, with any kind of penis please.

A mid-life quaker lesbian with flowing fiery hair offered me a turkey baster at which point I coughed up more than a squirt of coffee and walnut cake.

Another colleague mused how he’d spent £600 on bedding and explained that a welcoming bed reaps a merry harvest. And it is the harvest moon. ‘Mind you’, he said, ‘you do alright’. SCREAM! My bed is barren as am I, sorry, tired and second-hand, impractical and haunting.

So I looked in a bed shop, (I am skint), and was drawn to one bed, a divan bed as it happens. £1200. What’s a girl to do? Not that easy to shoplift, but oh so easy to lie in.

But buying a bed also means staying put, and as my reflexologist told me today ‘oooooo, from your toes I can tell you know where you’re going’.

Down Tescos for a one-pot wonder, that’s where I’m going………….