Yes, I know, it doesn't really work when you elongate the noun like that. Anyway.
Yesterday evening, I learned something rather interesting. James...light of my loins, master of my mammaries...knows FRENCH. And not just O level textbook French either. Fluent, could-talk-the-hind-legs-off-a-Parisian-donkey French.
During our rather hurried meal out last night (supposedly at Pilate's, natch), he started conversing with our waiter, who, as it turned out, came from the same French town James' school was partnered with back when he was a teenager. Then they raced off into some conversation about the local area, leaving me stranded in my own linguistic ignorance. See, I did study French at school, for 3 years, but the only sentence I can recall is:
"J'habite dans un appartement en bord de mer."
Translated : I live in an apartment by the sea. Great if you do, of course. Not so great if you're trying to interject into a fast-moving conversation on the French school system.
Despite my lack of understanding, however, I can conclude one thing. Foreign languages are HOT. Watching James spout all this vowel-stuffed nonsense, I couldn't help but get a little hot under the collar. Such intelligence. Such experience. He could have been reciting a brief history of early Roman irrigation systems. I still wanted to hump his leg like a randy Chihuahua.
On our way back to the car, I suggest that he perhaps might like to try a little 'Comment va ton père?' in the bedroom. He seemed reluctant. Perhaps worried that this new-found fascination might awaken some dormant yet terrifying sexual urges in me...
That sound like fun doesn't it? Well, if James fails me, I guess I could always spend an evening with an old Linguaphone tape and a bottle of wine. Who cares if the conversation is a little one-sided? I'm a sucker for a cunning linguist...
M x
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Monday, 23 November 2009
Feet.
They say that you can tell a lot about someone just by looking at them.
Hm. That sounds a bit like a sweeping statement to me. In some cases yes. For example, you can pretty much guarantee that any man wearing an Italian suit and a Bluetooth headset will be an utter, utter wanker.
But normies like myself, we don't give too much away. Today, I am wearing a nice Primarni blouse and some high waisted Matalan trousers. Which, really, tells you nothing about me. Bar the fact that I am ever so slightly cheap.
No. That phrase doesn't ring too true for me. But I DO think you can tell quite a bit about someone by looking at their feet. I got to thinking this while watching the X Factor yesterday.
My husband's feet are so neglected it's almost funny. I say 'almost' because, when you've been sharing a bed with his eagle-like talons for nearly a decade, the hilarity fails to shine through. You just have to fight the over-whelming urge to attack his tootsies with a pair of garden sheers.
They are the feet of a man who has given up. Who no longer feels it necessary to take care of his extremities. His nails are flaky and curled at the edges. The soles of his feet long to be caressed by the pumice stone.
His are the feet of a man who has given up. Who believes he has no need real need to maintain his general appearance. After 8 years of marriage, why would one need to keep up such petty preening rituals? Why make an effort when you already know you have a wife who loves you, cleans for you, and will provide you with the occasional bit of How's-Your'Father? I'm sorted, they say, I don't have to try.
Mine are a different story. Short, painted nails. Smooth heels. A little bit of Johnson's Summer Skin to give them a bit of a glow. They are the feet of a woman who cares about her appearance. Who goes that extra mile. Who is making an effort - maybe not just for herself.
Mind you, my tootsies weren't always like this. A year ago, the paint would be peeling, the nails would be a little too long. The skin would be rougher. Back then, they were the feet of a woman who was tired of trying. Who genuinely wanted to make the effort, but after years of going unnoticed, was apathetic and uninspired.
...Hubby could learn a lot by looking at my feet. In fact, maybe he'd learn a little too much.
Hm. That sounds a bit like a sweeping statement to me. In some cases yes. For example, you can pretty much guarantee that any man wearing an Italian suit and a Bluetooth headset will be an utter, utter wanker.
But normies like myself, we don't give too much away. Today, I am wearing a nice Primarni blouse and some high waisted Matalan trousers. Which, really, tells you nothing about me. Bar the fact that I am ever so slightly cheap.
No. That phrase doesn't ring too true for me. But I DO think you can tell quite a bit about someone by looking at their feet. I got to thinking this while watching the X Factor yesterday.
My husband's feet are so neglected it's almost funny. I say 'almost' because, when you've been sharing a bed with his eagle-like talons for nearly a decade, the hilarity fails to shine through. You just have to fight the over-whelming urge to attack his tootsies with a pair of garden sheers.
They are the feet of a man who has given up. Who no longer feels it necessary to take care of his extremities. His nails are flaky and curled at the edges. The soles of his feet long to be caressed by the pumice stone.
His are the feet of a man who has given up. Who believes he has no need real need to maintain his general appearance. After 8 years of marriage, why would one need to keep up such petty preening rituals? Why make an effort when you already know you have a wife who loves you, cleans for you, and will provide you with the occasional bit of How's-Your'Father? I'm sorted, they say, I don't have to try.
Mine are a different story. Short, painted nails. Smooth heels. A little bit of Johnson's Summer Skin to give them a bit of a glow. They are the feet of a woman who cares about her appearance. Who goes that extra mile. Who is making an effort - maybe not just for herself.
Mind you, my tootsies weren't always like this. A year ago, the paint would be peeling, the nails would be a little too long. The skin would be rougher. Back then, they were the feet of a woman who was tired of trying. Who genuinely wanted to make the effort, but after years of going unnoticed, was apathetic and uninspired.
...Hubby could learn a lot by looking at my feet. In fact, maybe he'd learn a little too much.
Friday, 20 November 2009
I am convinced...
...the people at Videojug are out to get me. I recently discovered the website while at the office the other day (seriously, who does actual work nowadays?) and now I am a bit hooked. There are basically thousands of little instructional videos on anything and everything, from 'How To Kiss Passionately' to 'How To Make Sure Your Teeth Don't Ruin You Love Life'. Really quite genius - especially if you're too lazy to pick up a book. Condensed wisdom. That's what I need.
Anyway, this afternoon, rather predictably, I decided to search Videojug for any videos tagged with the word 'adultery' (I now do this on any website that has a search function. Any. Website). 8 video results. Great. However, the list of titles was a little disconcerting...
'How to Spy On Your Partner'
'How to Spot on Online Affair'
'How to Tell if Your Partner is Cheating On You'
'How to Tell Your Friend That Their Partner is Cheating'
'Confessing to Infidelity'
The results page resembled a self-help book which had been solely put together to ruin my life. There are tips for my husband on how to unearth my affair. Tips for my friends on how to tell him about it, just in case he hasn't already figured it out. And finally, a rather convincing video by one Sherri Meyers, giving me all the reasons why I should just drop the pretense and confess everything.
Conclusion : Videojug is out to get me.
A note to those of you who are currently having extra-marital affairs. Might want to add this one to the block list. Trust me - they have information...
Anyway, this afternoon, rather predictably, I decided to search Videojug for any videos tagged with the word 'adultery' (I now do this on any website that has a search function. Any. Website). 8 video results. Great. However, the list of titles was a little disconcerting...
'How to Spy On Your Partner'
'How to Spot on Online Affair'
'How to Tell if Your Partner is Cheating On You'
'How to Tell Your Friend That Their Partner is Cheating'
'Confessing to Infidelity'
The results page resembled a self-help book which had been solely put together to ruin my life. There are tips for my husband on how to unearth my affair. Tips for my friends on how to tell him about it, just in case he hasn't already figured it out. And finally, a rather convincing video by one Sherri Meyers, giving me all the reasons why I should just drop the pretense and confess everything.
Conclusion : Videojug is out to get me.
A note to those of you who are currently having extra-marital affairs. Might want to add this one to the block list. Trust me - they have information...
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
Probably my only serious post.
It really puts things into perspective, this kind of thing.
Just been reading an article on the BBC site about a Somanlian woman who has been stoned to death in her own country for commiting adultery.
Love really does seem to be one of the only forces that law and legislation cannot contain. It makes me so sad and so terribly grateful at the same time, that I live in a country where I can make my own romantic choices without fear of punishment. Surely these torturous methods exist to deter people, but in the end, there will always be those that will risk everything. Such is the nature of the beast.
Us cheaters in Britain have it lucky. I did a little research. Turns out infidelity is still illegal in some states in the US (you can get a life sentence in Michigan, or be charged with class 1 Felony in Wisconsin). It is punsihable by death across the Middle East - usually death by stoning. In India you get locked up.
So, next time I'm waiting on a wet street corner for James, cursing my unsuitable shoes and the SAD-inducing weather, I will take a breath and remind myself of how lucky I am in my freedom to choose. And it really is luck.
Love Michelle x
Just been reading an article on the BBC site about a Somanlian woman who has been stoned to death in her own country for commiting adultery.
Love really does seem to be one of the only forces that law and legislation cannot contain. It makes me so sad and so terribly grateful at the same time, that I live in a country where I can make my own romantic choices without fear of punishment. Surely these torturous methods exist to deter people, but in the end, there will always be those that will risk everything. Such is the nature of the beast.
Us cheaters in Britain have it lucky. I did a little research. Turns out infidelity is still illegal in some states in the US (you can get a life sentence in Michigan, or be charged with class 1 Felony in Wisconsin). It is punsihable by death across the Middle East - usually death by stoning. In India you get locked up.
So, next time I'm waiting on a wet street corner for James, cursing my unsuitable shoes and the SAD-inducing weather, I will take a breath and remind myself of how lucky I am in my freedom to choose. And it really is luck.
Love Michelle x
Friday, 23 October 2009
The Dilema of Christmas
Oh dear. Christmas is coming. I know this because, unnervingly, Next have started displaying their horrid 'festive' jumpers in the window of the shop near my workplace.
With Christmas comes a logistical nightmare. On the plus side, the holiday season is the only time when I get to take time off from my horrendous job and chill the hell out (blood preasure is a bit ridculous at the moment - fear I may burst before December even gets here). On the minus side, my husbamd does exactly the same thing.
Guess what this means? No no, it doesn't mesn that (rude!). It means NO JAMES. FOR 3 WEEKS.
It's not that I won't be getting a regular dose of How's-Your-Father. Hubby had a little revelation a few weeks ago with a little pill, and now it seems he can't leave me alone (I would like to add that this is not always a good thing. Especially when you've just got home from work, and all you want to do is watch House and eat chinesse).
But it does mean that the quality of Hows-Your-Father I will be getting will be significantly decreased. Instead a making occasional love with a strong, statuest stalion who can lift me with one of his arms tied behind his back, I will be stuck with a podgy little bald man, plagued by an almost-perminent errection.
Might. Go. Mad. James and I will be in touch via most electronic mediums, but that is no substitue for the real thing. Plus, I don't want to keep sneaking off to make phone calls, since the hubster will be around pretty much all of the time. No desire to arouse suspicion.
I am preparing myself for this drought by seeing James as much as possible before the festive End of Days. This, in hindsight, probably isn't the best idea, since my withdrawal symptoms will probably be much worse as a result, but who cares? For the minute, I am letting the good times roll.
This evening, J is taking me for dinner. And if I'm lucky, I might get a quick grope in the fire escape.
Sometimes I sound so sophisticated, I scare myself.
With Christmas comes a logistical nightmare. On the plus side, the holiday season is the only time when I get to take time off from my horrendous job and chill the hell out (blood preasure is a bit ridculous at the moment - fear I may burst before December even gets here). On the minus side, my husbamd does exactly the same thing.
Guess what this means? No no, it doesn't mesn that (rude!). It means NO JAMES. FOR 3 WEEKS.
It's not that I won't be getting a regular dose of How's-Your-Father. Hubby had a little revelation a few weeks ago with a little pill, and now it seems he can't leave me alone (I would like to add that this is not always a good thing. Especially when you've just got home from work, and all you want to do is watch House and eat chinesse).
But it does mean that the quality of Hows-Your-Father I will be getting will be significantly decreased. Instead a making occasional love with a strong, statuest stalion who can lift me with one of his arms tied behind his back, I will be stuck with a podgy little bald man, plagued by an almost-perminent errection.
Might. Go. Mad. James and I will be in touch via most electronic mediums, but that is no substitue for the real thing. Plus, I don't want to keep sneaking off to make phone calls, since the hubster will be around pretty much all of the time. No desire to arouse suspicion.
I am preparing myself for this drought by seeing James as much as possible before the festive End of Days. This, in hindsight, probably isn't the best idea, since my withdrawal symptoms will probably be much worse as a result, but who cares? For the minute, I am letting the good times roll.
This evening, J is taking me for dinner. And if I'm lucky, I might get a quick grope in the fire escape.
Sometimes I sound so sophisticated, I scare myself.
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
Full coverage
So, have just finished doing an email-based interview with The Bolton News. I know what you're thinking - I have officially arrived. Soon I will have the New Yorker banging on my door asking for my comment on some new infidelity scandal. And I will push them to my publicist because I'm having a manicure with Monica Lewinsky.
This is what I dream about while sat in my sad little office, pasting Philadelphia onto a Sainsbury's own-brand rice cracker.
One thing I do find funny about journos is how they always seem to want you to be fully identified. I had spoken to several over the course of this year, and at some point, the following exchange always ensues:
"So, it would be great to get a picture..."
"Yes, I'm sure it would. Unfortunately I'm trying to keep my affair a secret, so that won't be possible."
"Okay Michelle. Is that your real name, Michelle Sutton?"
"No, no...of course not."
"What is your real name?"
"Why?"
"Well, we'd really like to use your real name in the piece..."
"No, sorry. Like I said. I am married and I do not want my husband to find out about my affair so you won't be getting those details from me."
"Okay. This lover of yours...James is it? What's his full name? Do you have any picture of him?"
"*Audibly bangs head against wall*"
"Ahhh, right. Sorry."
I completely understand why a newspaper want to have a photo and a real name - it makes the story so much more immersive. But, in truth, why would a MARRIED WOMAN, having AN AFFAIR IN SECRET, want to identify herself in a LOCAL NEWSPAPER? Yeah, I don't know either. I put so much effort into keeping James under my...hat. I don't want some local rag outing me to everyone and his wife. And their lover.
I have realised this has turned into a bit of a rant. In order to counteract the negatively of the last two paragraphs, I am going to paste an image of something cute. To reset the balance.
Disturbingly, if you search the word 'cute' on Google image search, the following image is the first result...
I have a lot of words to describe that picture. 'Cute' isn't one of them. I apologise to any arachnophobics I might have unnerved. Nothing in more terrifying than seeing the head of something cute pasted on the body of something terrifying. Like seeing Johnny Depp's jewel of a head on Simon Cowell's high-waisted, smug record-exec torso. Shudder.
In conclusion, any Bolton bloggers out there, keep an eye out for said interview. I haven't got a date yet, and knowing locals, I probably won't get one...so keep your peepers peeled.
I realise my dream of becoming a world-renowned infidelity expert is, at the moment, far from realistic. So in the meantime, humor me.
x
This is what I dream about while sat in my sad little office, pasting Philadelphia onto a Sainsbury's own-brand rice cracker.
One thing I do find funny about journos is how they always seem to want you to be fully identified. I had spoken to several over the course of this year, and at some point, the following exchange always ensues:
"So, it would be great to get a picture..."
"Yes, I'm sure it would. Unfortunately I'm trying to keep my affair a secret, so that won't be possible."
"Okay Michelle. Is that your real name, Michelle Sutton?"
"No, no...of course not."
"What is your real name?"
"Why?"
"Well, we'd really like to use your real name in the piece..."
"No, sorry. Like I said. I am married and I do not want my husband to find out about my affair so you won't be getting those details from me."
"Okay. This lover of yours...James is it? What's his full name? Do you have any picture of him?"
"*Audibly bangs head against wall*"
"Ahhh, right. Sorry."
I completely understand why a newspaper want to have a photo and a real name - it makes the story so much more immersive. But, in truth, why would a MARRIED WOMAN, having AN AFFAIR IN SECRET, want to identify herself in a LOCAL NEWSPAPER? Yeah, I don't know either. I put so much effort into keeping James under my...hat. I don't want some local rag outing me to everyone and his wife. And their lover.
I have realised this has turned into a bit of a rant. In order to counteract the negatively of the last two paragraphs, I am going to paste an image of something cute. To reset the balance.
Disturbingly, if you search the word 'cute' on Google image search, the following image is the first result...
I have a lot of words to describe that picture. 'Cute' isn't one of them. I apologise to any arachnophobics I might have unnerved. Nothing in more terrifying than seeing the head of something cute pasted on the body of something terrifying. Like seeing Johnny Depp's jewel of a head on Simon Cowell's high-waisted, smug record-exec torso. Shudder.
In conclusion, any Bolton bloggers out there, keep an eye out for said interview. I haven't got a date yet, and knowing locals, I probably won't get one...so keep your peepers peeled.
I realise my dream of becoming a world-renowned infidelity expert is, at the moment, far from realistic. So in the meantime, humor me.
x
Monday, 5 October 2009
A non-distress call
Hello ladies and gents of the web (of lies and deceit).
I have just received an email from Rosie, at IllicitEncounters.com, asking if I might like to take part as an anonymous case study in an up-and-coming TV show about the site and all it's mucky, mucky members.
Anyway - I said I would pass said request out to cyberspace. Because I'm nice like that. If you're a married lady (or, indeed, a mistress) who would be happy to talk anonymously, silhouetted on camera, about your experiences of being a play-away Paula, then drop Rosie an email at
presspr@illicitencounters.co.uk
Look at me. I am SO their bitch.
Seriously though. It should be fun, and I'd quite like a chance to meet some fellow adulteresses for a drink and a giggle.
Chow chow (I think that's a dog),
M xxx
I have just received an email from Rosie, at IllicitEncounters.com, asking if I might like to take part as an anonymous case study in an up-and-coming TV show about the site and all it's mucky, mucky members.
Anyway - I said I would pass said request out to cyberspace. Because I'm nice like that. If you're a married lady (or, indeed, a mistress) who would be happy to talk anonymously, silhouetted on camera, about your experiences of being a play-away Paula, then drop Rosie an email at
presspr@illicitencounters.co.uk
Look at me. I am SO their bitch.
Seriously though. It should be fun, and I'd quite like a chance to meet some fellow adulteresses for a drink and a giggle.
Chow chow (I think that's a dog),
M xxx
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