Getting Out in the Fresh Air

So this is it. Perhaps it is not quite as large, or as jewel-encrusted as you’d hoped, but still not something to be sniffed at… at least, not in polite company anyway. Still, as they say ‘many a pork pie makes a whole great fuckin’ heap of pork pies, and no mistake guv’nor’.

Now, I am not one to dismiss, or disparage, what might be called folk wisdom. I think there is a lot to be said for what is often called common sense, and I have spent a great deal of my life out on the common engaged in various country matters, but that need not detain us here, but we could spend sometime getting to know each other over in those bushes over there. That is, if you’ve remembered to bring the bobble hats, watermelon and the flippers.

Speaking of which, it is not often you see such a fine pair of flippers out in the wild, and I’ve been to Whitby. So let us have no more overtly sexy talk of cash book reconciliation, at least until we see the whites of their invoices.

This used to be such a nice place too, the wide open spaces of the grassy areas, the dark woodlands and the discreet, softly-ferned and hidden little places. Places where a man, woman and their kinkiness diversity outreach co-ordinator could engage in mutually satisfying erotic auditing practices out in the healthy open-air, without fear of startling too many badgers and upsetting the squirrels.