A Bit of a Picnic

Sometimes it seems as though all our scotch eggs are not quite what we expected when we first set out on this trip to the places of interest in the nearby locality of all our hopes and dreams. Not only that – quite possibly – some of our more… er… shall we say ‘individual’ matters of sexual fantasy and desire, even though we have never been able to look at a brace of warm butter-melting kippers in quite the same way, since ’the incident’, could be construed as a little out of the general run of things as decreed by the tabloid newspapers that are the stout unwavering guardians of today’s moral climate.

As for any return to Bridlington in the immediate future, or – indeed - in living memory, shall we just say that would not be a good idea, at least until after the arrest warrant is well-expired.

Now, you and I are both persons of the world, well-versed in the way of the re-usable shopping bag. Furthermore, with not – either of us – liable to blanch at the thought of a politician being mendaciously self-serving, maybe we could – one day – when you are feeling both brave and strong enough, perhaps, possibly, we could consider opening a tin of mandarin segments together in the privacy of our very own fast lane of the M6. Then – as fully-consensual adults – engage in all that is wanton and lewd in that perversion that is spoken of – in hushed whispers – as the picnic.