You grunt, I’ll groan

Ever heard of the expression about the morning after the night before?

“So,” said Guido looking at me sort of smugly as I walked through the cafe kitchen this morning. “Tell me, just what exactly were you doing under the sheets in our bed late last night?”

I never usually have to be asked to explain.

Guido was simultaneously scrambling eggs in a very hot frying pan, cooking bacon under a flaming grill, and toasting waffle batter. And with great aplomb I might add. As I’m someone who can barely do one thing at a time, I always admire someone who can do two. Let alone the ability to do three.

I cast my mind back to last night. I was struggling to remember anything because, if I’m completely honest, I was trying very hard to resist the temptation to eat the eggs. Guido scrambles with unsalted butter and a splash of cream.

I looked at him blankly. I blinked obliviously. From what I could recall, we’d both had a quick kiss and a grope then one of us had flicked the lights out. Then we’d gone to sleep. It’s with great regret I have to tell you he hadn’t passionately wrestled my Justin Bieber pyjamas trousers off. Trust me, I would’ve remembered.

“What?” I asked.

Then I had one of those horrible creeping thoughts. The kind you get when, although you know you’ve done absolutely nothing wrong, you can’t help keep thinking you should feel guilty about doing something.

“Well,” said Guido, “you sure were making a lot of strange groaning noises from the dark side of the bed.”

He was still stirring and flipping and toasting.

“Really?” I asked innocently. “I seem to recall I was having another one of my highly enjoyable dreams about George Clooney and me. We were in a gondola.”

I’d just made that up. George and I have done a lot of terrific things together but doing them in a gondola was unexplored territory.

“I see,” said Guido, “I expect with all of that groaning it must have been a bit of a nightmare. Doesn’t say much for George’s charisma after all.”

I laughed.

“I suppose it could have been worse,” I said, “I could have been grunting like you usually do when you’re fast asleep.”

I’d just made that up too. Guido sometimes snores noisily with his mouth open wide enough to catch a fly but I’d never heard him grunt before.

He stopped multi tasking.

“Grunting?”

I started walking.

“Grunting? You’re just making that up,” he stopped doing what he was doing, “you’re making that up just because I said you were groaning.”

I kept walking.

I sat down in the cafe and ordered a big frothy cappuccino. I even pushed the boat out and had marshmallows on top. I could smell the faint whiff of a burning waffle and I could hear a lot of crashing and banging and shouting coming from the kitchen. There may even have been some loud and intentional grunting.

I got out my iPhone and Googled – Groaning In Bed. There were some accompanying pictures too. It was quite a eye opener I can tell you. Then I Googled – Grunting In Bed.

Let’s just say I’d much rather be groaning than grunting.

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Soup for one

I heard a pretty funny joke about the sanctity of marriage this week. Well, it made me laugh. I’m not that great at humor but I think I remember the punchline.

“The reason my relationship has lasted this long is that my husband and I dine out on a romantic supper twice a week. There’s music, flickering candles, great tasting wine, followed by a whole lot of flattery and then some amazing sex afterwards. I go out on a Friday and my husband goes out on a Monday.”

Stick with me, there is a point to this blog post.

I’ve been out of town working all week. The evenings away get kind of lonely. The hotel restaurant is full of people travelling through just like me. Tables for one, our heads buried in a book or in our iPhone between the starters and the main course. Occasionally we’ll look up and twist a salt shaker or crush some black pepper over a watery tagliatelle. If we’re feeling really bold we might even crack a smile at a complete stranger. Last night I took a look at the menu and jumped straight to the dessert.

If you want to alleviate the monotony of dining out alone trust me, just eat a dessert. Don’t die of shock. I had a fresh fruit sorbet. If Chris, at The Juicenut, is reading this, honest to God you better be proud of me. There was a lot of serious competition I can tell you. It was a toss up between a slab of sticky toffee pudding and a blow torched creme brûlée.

Anyway the reason I’m telling you this is because after dinner (dessert) I went into the hotel bar. I started to type a new blog entry on here which had absolutely nothing to do with jokes or loneliness or healthy option sorbets and feeling overly sanctimonious about eating them. Right after I sat down the waiter unexpectedly brought over a very large glass of wine. If I’d drunk it, it would’ve blown out all of my good work on the calorie count front – especially as all I’d religiously sucked was a blueberry sorbet all night. I looked at the big glass of wine, and then looked at the waiter.

“This is from your friend over at the bar,” he said smirking strangely. He cocked his head awkwardly behind him.

You know once in a blue moon, a guy, who I’m not actually happily married to at the time, will find me highly attractive and try to hit on me. I realise you might find that particular fact astonishing. Trust me, I do too. This sensation can be a terrific ego boost if it’s George Clooney’s Hairy Body Double, or, an absolute nightmare if it’s Quasimodo’s Long Lost English Cousin waving over next to me. Either way will depend on where I am and who happens to be doing the hitting on me at the time.

Anyway. The guy at the bar told me the joke. I laughed. It was pretty funny, but, I told him I didn’t cheat on my husband unless it’s on a Monday.

My night with George Clooney

Well, that got your attention.

Last night I dreamt I slept with George Clooney. We had mad and passionate and unbridled sex. If you’ve never had the chance to get in bed with George I can highly recommend it. If I was scoring, I’d give him a solid eight and a half. He’s that good, though he does pull the sheets right over his side in the middle of the night.

Readers who have been with me from the beginning of this blog will already know that George and I have form. We have history. Fortunately his wife, Amal, was no where to be seen last night. She’s very very understanding, well at least I think she is. If she ever discovers this blog she’ll probably sue my sorry backside through the international courts in The Hague during her lunch break – whilst simultaneously wearing a terrific dress and flashing those amazing legs of hers. I obviously can’t compete. But enough about her, back to me and her husband.

In the dream, right after the sex, George made me a hot and steamy cheese fondue. Apparently he’s a big brie fan. Who’d have guessed? He had one of those pointy dipping sticks with a crunchy crouton on the end of it which he’d thoughtfully drop onto the end of my tongue every so often. He’s most attentive. He might hog the blankets in the middle of the night but he’s very generous with his croutons, I can tell you.

The reason I’m updating you with the details of this fascinating story is because when I came down to the cafe kitchen earlier for breakfast I discovered Guido drawing up the menu for tonight’s dinner service. And would you believe this? Slap bang right between the cod and the rib-eye was an optional Cheese Fondue for two to share. If you can get here tonight it’s a bargain at £10.

“Gosh,” I said crunching some granola, “that’s a funny co-incidence because last night, right after I had mad and passionate and unbridled sex with George Clooney, he cooked me a cheese fondue.”

“Really?” said Guido, I could tell he was impressed, “how’d his taste?”

“Oh the absolute best,” I said, “yours’ll take some beating. His was so light and creamy and tastey.” I couldn’t help it, I momentarily paused whilst I recalled his thick muscular hairy arms dunking. “What you planning to use for dipping?”

“A toasted crusty cob,” said Guido. I strangely felt myself involuntarily raise an eyebrow. “You got a problem with that?”

“Hmm,” I said, “All I’m saying is that George has a preference for croutons.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Well if the two of you happen to fit in sex again tonight, perhaps you could try using a baguette instead.” He looked back at his menu. “Let me know how that goes down.”

On reflection I’m not really sure telling Guido about my dreams of extra marital  sex was one of my better ideas. Even if it did involve cheese. But don’t worry, I think our wedding is still on – at least I hope it is because I’ve been spending a lot of spare time researching pavlovas.

I seriously do doubt that neither George nor Amal will make it onto our guest list. But if George insists on popping up during our honeymoon for a quick one, trust me, I’ll be keeping it to myself.