Ladies and gentlemen, would you please put your hands together

I may well believe that my identity should be separate from that of my sexual partners, ‘Yet still’, I hear you cry ‘she gives muscles top billing’. Well, he needs it, so let’s leave that at that shall we?

Muscles is my lover. A six and a half foot builder with the kind of torso a girl would get into a cat fight with Pammy Anderson over.

He’s cool.
We’ve been seeing each other since the 2nd May. It’s an easy date to remember, the anniversary of Labour’s historic election victory in 1997. And now, another no less historic landslide has occurred. Started in my underwear and has made it all the way to my brain.

So, whilst it may be easy to say six weeks in, I reckon he’s a keeper. Not many men do that to me. And make me laugh.


He’s married, which before you think, ‘god woman, how could ya?’ I should point out is the only kind of married I date. Living apart, getting divorced, oh and she’s taking him to court for poking her in the eyes. Don’t go worrying about that, I’ll explain and you’ll be fine about it.

The Baby is my son. We’ll call him William, though that’s not his name.
Billy boy.
Like Mr Clinton.
Minus the cigar.

He’s ten months old, and the best baby in the world, but I concede I may be a tad biased there. I can go to the loo and then re-enter the room and he looks like I’ve rocked his world, just by coming in. No-one has ever looked at me like that.

Me? I used to be a gypsy, then got preggers..you know me if you need to x