Monday, 28 November 2011

A Whore in The Kitchen and a Cook in The Bedroom

For those of you who haven't seen my latest post over at Total Politics you can read it here

At the weekend I made an effort to cook. And I'm not just talking about toast or reheating something my flatmate cooked, no I mean a proper dinner with starters and deserts. Why would I waste a perfectly good Saturday in my kitchen when it could be spent shopping, sleeping or catching up on Merlin? Because of a man.
I'm waiting for the Sisterhood to moan about what they will see as a man domesticating a woman but they should wait until the end.

For the purpose of this diary I will call the man in question John. I met John recently and due to his tall stature, broad shoulders and handsome, chiselled features, I decided that he needed to get his cute little behind into my bedroom pronto. Mix in that he's a Tory and a well paid nerd and we have a winning combination. Congratulation John, you have been selected for a few rounds of Felicity frolics!

I don't have a problem asking men out, life is too short to play the maiden so inviting John around to mine for dinner was pretty straight forward. “Hmm yeah, that's very interesting. You know, I think you should have dinner at mine at the weekend. That way you get to try my rather excellent cooking and I get to learn more about what you do for a living. It would make for an interesting evening don't you think?” 99% success rate with that one. Never mind the fact I can't cook nor did I find any interest in cloud computing. All I know is that my dining table is within staggering distance to my bedroom.

I should have known my plans would go awry when I woke up on my friend's sofa at 11am, Saturday morning, the karaoke machine still buzzing away and a Simon Cowell mask sellotaped to my face. John would be at mine in eight hours and in my hungover state I knew this would not be enough time to shop for ingredients, cook, clean the flat and tart myself up. Had I learned nothing from all those hours watching Come Dine With Me? Something had to be sacrificed and it was to be the shopping.

A decision I later came to regret when the can of cream of mushroom soup in the back of the cupboard turned out to be cream chicken and mushroom and rather than having cream cheese to add to my beef stroganoff, I had to substitute with Dairylea triangles. Thankfully there was more than enough alcohol in the flat to keep me lubricated while hoovering and hair curling. The stroganoff looked like baby sick, the salad starter had wine spilt on it and I'd eaten half the desert ice cream. But dear readers, I looked amazing and I felt as smug as Speaker Bercow no doubt does when he's walking past tourists in the Central Lobby so I cared not a jot.

On the night I had asked John out, I had been so concerned with trying to work out what he would look like without his clothes on that I hadn't paid all that much attention to what he'd said. After 30 minutes of his arrival at mine I was bored. He was a lovely chap with a cute smile but the personality never expanded beyond agreeing with everything David Cameron said and programming software. Did I think the Big Society would have benefited from a name change? Should Conservative Future stick with the same Chairman? Should CCHQ stick with Merlin or find another system? I perked up at that point until I realised we weren't talking about knights and wizards. With a sigh I knocked back another glass.

I'd had enough at this point and promptly told him to help me get the ice cream from the kitchen. My kitchen is tiny and it's hard for two people to move around in there. To cut a long story short I was up against the fridge quite quickly and John, thankfully, wasn't talking anymore.

Was it worth it? Yes and no. Sadly any hopes I had had of uncovering a rampant sex god under the pleasant, introverted surface were dashed when he climbed onto my bed wearing nothing but his socks, and declaring “Landslide victory!” at the end of any intimate encounter should be made illegal. I won't use this post as a platform to criticise the man's technique cough-stamina-cough but I will confirm that afterwards I told him he had 15 minutes to get his breath back and then I would be taking over. No ifs, no buts. And as predicted: he did look gooood without a stitch on.

I have a sneaking suspicion he's going to ask me out to lunch in the coming weeks so maybe there's room for potential but only if he's prepared to sit through 'Felicity's guide to doing bad things in good ways' lesson.

After all - 'If you want something said, ask a man...if you want something done, ask a woman.'

Toodles! x

Thursday, 17 November 2011

'Oh fancy that – I'm eye level with your zipper...'

Surely a Minister such as Alan Duncan would have a key to his own office? The poor lamb was left waiting in the hallway for a member of staff to let him in the other day. I like Alan; he has always been polite and kind whenever we have crossed paths. So I say with affection Alan, dear, do carry a key.

We had problems with office equipment this week. To say the chap sent to fix it was a hunk is an understatement. I need to break things more often! I wish I could say I didn't gawk as he bent over the desk to play with plugs but that would make me a big fat liar and my dear old gran told me to never lie about perving over men. After all they make no secret of when they do it to us so why spare their blushes? Equality for all!

'What's that, you need help with the packaging? Well of course. Just let me hike my skirt up a bit before I kneel down. Oh fancy that – I'm eye level with your zipper...'

And that's when the boss came back, grumbling about the low standard of debate in the chamber. Not a word was said about him finding me in a questionable position in the middle of the office but then that's the beauty of working for an old school MP.

Toodles! x

Tuesday, 15 November 2011

Stand and Deliver Your Money or Your Life!

I am now engaged in an office share. I don't like it. That's the problem with the Houses of Parliament – any spare space must be used, even if it's a spare desk in a grotty office. The other staffer who has come to join us is what I would call a Matron and very nice but she doesn't stop talking. Ever. Even when I had my head phones in and watching The Iron Lady trailer she rolled her chair next to mine and proceeded to give a running commentary. All in all it's made the boss a bit tetchy...

“It's not at the top of my list today but if I cross paths with Shagger Mercer, I am going to have words!”

“Over the Cameron comments?”

“Oh indeed.”

*heavy pause* “You have said worse...”

Yes but either in private or to the man's face! You don't say things like that about the Prime Minster in public. It's the rules, Felicity dear.”

In the House of Lords, first floor over at the West Front, is a notice board full of union leaflets. It's the usual thing about cuts and George Osborne dressed as a highwayman. The boss and I had to walk past it today and the old boy growled. “It's a bloody disgrace!” I watched him look up and down the corridor shifty like. “You'll get caught,” I muttered, “just like the time you tried to take down the PCS Union poster near the post room and by the by - I can NOT run in these heels.” Thankfully he let it go and lunch was enjoyed by all.

An invite came in today for an event campaigning for the 'Criminalisation of Aggressive War'. What a bloody stupid campaign. Oh yes we're against aggressive war but passive war? Get stuck in sunshine!' I'm not sure why but that was said in an Eric Idle sort of voice. I think I need sleep. It has been a long week... What day is it tomorrow? Oh sod it.

Goodnight x

Friday, 11 November 2011

Insert Your Joke About A Wet Pussy Here

For a while now I have been meaning to write something about the Eurozone crisis but every time I start, I find myself getting bored very quickly. I can only put this down to a lack of financial experience, understanding of a dependant, socialist mind and the fact that Osborne is currently in my bad books.

But what I do know is this – I would never use my credit card to pay for my friends drinks on a night out. This is because I know the lazy bastards would never pay me back and most likely crash at my flat after, empty my fridge and traumatise my flatmate's cat by mistaking my wardrobe for a toilet again. Thus leaving me even further out of pocket. 
So whilst I am happy to pay for my rounds I will always put my foot down and say “no, no, no” when the sob story starts.

“I may be a caring, compassionate conservative but if you want the money to have a night out and forget that you caught the clap from a girl whose cherry you thought you were taking, then might I suggest you try writing a poignant, heartfelt song about STDs in the hope that Simon Cowell gives a shit because I don't. Now go away and so I can chat up this barman in peace!”

That's not something I can see Cameron or Osborne saying to the EU anytime soon but I think the intention should certainly be the same.