A ray of sunshine has fallen across our Saturday morning. Outside is dull and damp, but in doors there is a spot of hope.
Saturday morning started off as all Saturdays tend to do. Lucy, our cat, came gently meowing into our bedroom. The weather is grim out there, but that didn’t stop her from wanting, nay insisting, on going out. I crept out of bed, descended the stairs, opened the front door, and she was gone into the gloom. I went back to bed; it was five o’clock.
Later, we were awoken by the sound of our middle daughter moving around. We ignored this and feigned sleep. After about half an hour, my wife’s phone started to do the buzzing thing that has replaced the traditional ring. It could only be one person, our eldest daughter in France. I listened for a short time to the conversation and then went to make the mugs of tea that are so much a part of our awakenings.
Saturday mornings always follow their own traditions. Tea, talk, sample the news, and the porn; property-porn.
Property-porn has been part of our lives for over twenty years. In the early days it meant leafing through the Yorkshire Post property pages. Then it progressed to the internet where property porn is tailored for everyone’s predispositions and quirks. We originally went the French way as old houses and gardens were still the norm for most people’s tastes. After that, we went Spanish: new-builds, sea-views, and pools. Spanish properties are plentiful, although sometimes they tend to lack the aesthetic.
We can spend up to an hour luxuriating in this debauchery until the real world calls us back. The real world needs finances and I have managed to spend the main part of my life avoiding this hefty consideration. My pension-pot is puny as I thought that I would be a famous writer by now. I am not. And the wife is not overly impressed. Therefore the morning, that started off so well, the porn not the cat, started to slide downhill a little.
“Why can’t you write a bestseller?”
“I know. I wish I could.”
“But it would have to be something that people would want to read.”
It was still slipping downhill and towards a precipice when my wife suggested, sex.
“Perhaps I could write some erotica?”
“I don’t really think it’s you.”
So, I am officially a sad old git who can’t get it up for a swift chase of chapters that would titivate the secretly saucy.
“Dildos and Stockings!”
The morning was starting to look up again.
“Why don’t I set up an internet shop and sell dildos and stockings? Buy a pair of stockings and get a dildo, of your choice, free.”
She had my attention.
” I think that you have something there.”
The idea had begun to harden in our minds.
Dildos and Stockings. It’s great name.It could just work.