Want some porn with that coffee?

I recently took part in a photo-shoot with my clothes mainly off. I do that from time to time.

My photographer sent me the photos on a CD. He did this very quickly and shaved valuable seconds off the process by cutting out unnecessary steps like adding the “B” part of my address and completely omitting my name from the envelope.

Therefore the CD containing pictures where you sometimes could see both my face and my intimate bits in the same shot was delivered to Costa Coffee, which I live above.

I didn’t realise this and presumed the CD was lost in the post, amusing bored postal workers in an office far enough from my flat to only unnerve me very slightly.

On I went with my day-to-day life, drinking Costa Coffee, blissfully unaware of anything amiss.

Until Friday. On Friday the barista gave me an envelope with my medium latte. It was open. “This yours?” he asked innocently. I looked at it, and peeked inside. It contained a CD.

Reality dawned slowly. As I walked towards the door clutching my envelope, I thought “Oh, good, just a Royal Mail mix-up. I’m glad I have my CD.” By the time I sat down outside, I was thinking, “Golly, isn’t it nice that the barista knows I live upstairs having seen me coming and going so often.” It wasn’t until my coffee had cooled down enough to drink it that I thought, “Fuck.”

The barista has seen me naked. He recognised me. He knows what I look like down there.

I’ve recently gone off coffee despite the fact that my boyfriend suggested I save myself and him pounds every week by winking and asking for freebies. Well fair’s fair, he says.

Have you ever faked an orgasm?

Yesterday, I said to my boyfriend: “Have you ever faked an orgasm”. Looking uncomfortable he replied in the affirmative.

Inwardly outraged (because if they start stealing this trick, girls, we're fucked) and outwardly curious, I asked, reasonably, “Have you ever faked one with me?” Admittedly my voice did get suspiciously high towards the end of the sentence.

He replied, almost choking on his own laughter “Hahahahahahahahahaha, yeah, all the time… no, joking!” And then, seeing my face contort into something that doesn’t normally mean 'good', added seriously, “Of course not, darling.”

I don’t believe him. Would you?

Surely the only way I could have believed him is if he had answered as follows:

(dead-pan, no hint of sarcasm, looking both lovingly and lustfully into my eyes): “No, are you mad? I can’t stop myself with you. You’re amazing; the best I’ve ever had. Every time I cast my eyes onto your beautiful body I want to ravish you. It’s all I can do to stop myself ravishing you in Morrison’s sometimes. God I want to ravish you right now.” And then to proceed with the ravishing.

No, no I don’t buy this at all.

Later, when he had ravished me, we looked at each other and simultaneously asked: “Were you faking it?” and then simultaneously replied, hurried and flustered, “No, no that was amazing, brilliant, no, wonderful, absolutely not.”

From now on, sexy time is detective time. Everyone is a suspect.

This week was a bad week

This week I made a grave error of somewhat overdoing it with my friend, Lauren and her beau. What ensued wasn’t so much a hangover as a week-long dive into depression.

This included all the symptoms of flu exacerbating my weak mental state whilst simultaneously making it possible for me to take two sick days, guilt-free. Which was lucky as I couldn’t leave the flat for three days. It took two for me to dare myself to draw the curtains. They were dark days, literally.

It was a big night, but it wasn’t that big. As the fog slowly left my brain gradually allowing me to, step-by-step, relearn how to live my daily life (first step: get out of bed, day two: make and eat marmite on toast, end of week: go to the shop wearing large sunglasses and a hat), I realised I was officially run-down.

This is because I don’t look after myself very well. I think my lifestyle is normal because I don’t yet know anyone who does yoga instead of smoking and thinks one glass of wine is a bit naughty.

Not only did I have to contend with chest ache and Weltschmerz, in my weakened state I became paranoid. So paranoid, in fact, that my boyfriend’s quickened breathing assured me that he was building up to end our relationship. It didn’t occur to me at all that it could be the result of the weird staring way his girlfriend was scrutinising him, centimetres from his face.

Then we went to a psychic fair with his Mother and the Tarot Card lady told me that I was pregnant. Pregnant and on the biggest come-down of my life. Brilliant.

My boyfriend’s Mother’s reaction was also a little disconcerting. Something about me not daring with a look that would scare Eve into putting the goddamn apple down.

But I digress, I don’t believe the lady was very psychic at all, so I am not expecting the pitter-patter of tiny feet.

I was never a believer really. I prefer Richard Dawkin’s school of thought. But, for a time, I rather liked the idea of lots of lovely assurances about my wonderful life to come. And the fact that if someone else already knows about it then it is obviously set in stone meaning that I can continue idling my way through life.

But I’m not sure I can.

You see, I was so run-down I couldn’t work. I keep spending all my money. I think I’m getting too old for this. I’m not entirely convinced that I haven’t now had all my lucky breaks. My motivation to work hard is low because idleness so far has worked out pretty well. But in two years I will be one month away from 30 and if all I have to show for it is a rented property filled with IKEA furniture and an evil unwanted career, I don’t think I’ll be able to pat myself on the back with all the gusto one would hope.

I want the happy ending, but I didn’t realise I was going to have to find it or, god forbid, work for it. I sort of expected it to land at my feet.

I can’t complain; a lot has fallen at my feet (or at least gotten close enough to be tempted and gotten drunk enough to fall somewhere near my feet). As a result, I have the man and the kittens (I didn’t get the kittens drunk, just the man, and only the first couple of times. What? Stop judging me).

It’s a good start. But to go with them I currently have a job I dislike, a flat too small for dogs (I don’t have dogs, but the point is happy endings involve houses with gardens and lovely dogs; that’s just a fact), I drink far too much and far too often and I smoke. I also can’t run 10k without dying which I need to do for charity in two weeks.

It’s time for action.