Sleepless nights - 1

Two nights of tossing and turning in bed, gentle reader… two long hard sleepless nights… one of those in a bed that was not my own. Perhaps upon reading this you hesitate, wondering if you ought to risk continuing to read in the office… but do not alarm yourself; you do not have to worry about my sharing ins and outs from my turbulent sexual life on the bloguette. Your point has been clearly made: you – are – not - interested. It is a noble decision… intended to demonstrate your great respect for my privacy, I am sure.

What accounts for my second sleepless night, you might ask?

Let me assure you that it was not spent asking myself how, given the fact that others with no less talent than myself (or so their mothers think) have managed to have their blogue's notoriety spread through the internet with the efficiency of a venereal disease, although my own plans for global domination using a bloguette have not started off as I expected.

I was distracted, my thoughts were elsewhere… roaming through the back streets of New Orleans, wondering what feats to demonstrate stamina and flexibility, and what devilish displays, one might perform in order to win a year’s supply of lubricant? Given that the city (one of my favourites in the world) witnessed what can only be described as unprecedented natural phenomena in the last eighteen months, one assumes it would take a lot to astonish the locals.

This is what happes after perusing through h a certain North American gentleman’s online photo album before retiring for the evening. In bed I lay, with my imagination and my right hand simultaneously engaged, and as my fan went to and fro, a gentle breeze cooled my inflamed cheeks, but not enough to draw my mind away from the matter in hand.

For it was even more distracting to consider how one determined what a year’s supply of lubricant was. Surely there is not a standardised quantity that is generally recognised in the United States of America as being a year’s supply? One cannot imagine that Bill Clinton and George W. Bush require an equivalent amount each year… for the same purposes. Presumably this was given serious consideration by the judging panel before the awards ceremony: imagine if a certain gentleman had mounted- the podium- only to scoff at the amount of lubricant offered, declaring that this was barely enough for a week! Perhaps the judges canvassed the private views of this gentleman as to what might be an appropriate quantity… in which case, one expects that a hasty mathematical calculation of the previous year’s activity might be of assistance? Although it has been my experience that one can never guess how many gentlemen callers one might entertain from one year to the next … figures vary so considerably.

Astute reader will surmise that I was tossing and turning because of a boy who liked to play with the Argonauts. One is easily distracted by the receipt of calling cards, it is true.

‘Hotter than the surface of the sun’ was the expression he used to describe me. It is not what one might call original to compare an object of admiration to the sun; however, on reflection, since the surface of the sun is highly radioactive and causes matter to disintegrate upon approach, it is an appropriate metaphor, demonstrating insight and understanding of my character.

So it was that I stretched out naked on the comfortable double bed in my Parisian garret, wondering if one day the flirtatious little messages we exchange might be preserved for posterity in the same way that the love letters of other great writers are… quickly realising that our romance would have to be doomed in order to attract that kind of attention, one of us might have to come to a tragic end.

But I had better not put such ideas into my suitor’s head: one cannot afford to jeopardise loyal readership… at this stage.