Old Boiler Needs a Good Servicing...

Yesterday, I discovered water dripping through my living room ceiling. Again. In exactly the same place as before. It's easy to spot; the artex is bulging beautifully and the decorative brown water mark is acting as a fuck-off great red arrow.

So I rang for a heating engineer. Again. He turned up, shook his head and said, "Sorry love, it's too late to lift the floorboards tonight. I'll drain the system and be back first thing in the morning." Well, I wasn't expecting that response. Much.

So here I sit, at eleven am, snuggled in my yellow fluffy blanket, waiting. Again. No heat, no hot water, a-bloody-gain.

At least this time, there's a positive note floating on the edge of my Carry-On world; he was bloody gorgeous - dark, brooding, tortured eyes, and a mane of silky black hair tied up in a ponytail, with only a few loose wisps that I just wanted to smooth back into place...

Y'see, that's the trouble with being single at my advanced age - all the equivalent men went bald years ago. Not that I have anything against the more follicular-challenged members of the species; bald is beautiful and intimate, but I just harbour this long, flowing locks fantasy. It's just one of my things, okay?

Maybe if I offer him a bacon sarnie, he'll let me play with his hair for a bit.

Warning: only read this on a strong or empty stomach...

My secret fantasy involves Mel Gibson (Lethal Weapon era - think untamed curls and firm buttocks).

Imagine: a cabin in the wilderness, it's dark outside, a log crackles as it settles among the burning embers in the stone fireplace. Two naked bodies are curled across a milk-white sheepskin rug. The firelight flickers, shadows are smudged across the dips and curves of their shaded forms. Scented candles send wisps of vanilla into the warm air.

She slithers onto her back, drawing up her knees. Her heels dig into the smooth fur of the rug. She closes her eyes and moans, "Now. I can't wait..." He moves away. She hears him rustling through his jacket pocket, and then, the soft fall of his footsteps. He's close now; she feels his warm breath on her cheek. She slides towards him, turns her face. His lips on hers, hungry, urgent. She moans, but the sound is soft. "Please..." A rip splinters the silence as he tears opens the packet. She claws at the rug, throws back her head in anticipation. She slides her tongue across her full, open lips. "Oh God," she murmurs and she feels the touch of his soft fingers. He moves across her tense body. Suddenly, he's there - she feels the slight pressure between her lips, opens up, ready for him. He slides the piece of Galaxy into her open mouth and she sighs, delicious...

Well honestly, what did you think I was talking about?