Saintly Monday

We needed sleaze.
And we got it.
After having our hearts shocked and then soothed by the lady in the white jacket, John and I got down on the floor. We ate spicy food, tore our socks off and then rammed toffee wrappers down the side of the settee. Saturday was kind of cool but Sunday was hotter. We were both exhausted Saturday morning, but after a brief breakfast we shot to the train station to do boring ticket stuff then home to melting cheese and Rock cakes.

Later that day after many pots of tea and filthy looks I took the man by the hand and told him how youthful he looked on his back. And he did. And as his grey hair swept over my mouth I thought 'Oh yeah'. Or something like that.
But Saturday wasn't only about seduction, food played a part too. I thought some home made Chinese food would suit the kaleidoscopic mood of the day, so I played with chicken, honey and all kinds of spices and with a few swift violent swipes of the cleaver, whipped up a perfect delicacy for two.
And so after we ate, the lipstick free Gloria and stubble faced Johnny screwed themselves to the settee and watched a few singing American kids. Perfect. The night got dark quickly and at about ten, as the soap foamed on my cheeks, I squinted around the bathroom and longed for sleep. And so we slept. John looked pure and 25, I looked dazed and 52.

Sunday was another chicken day.
But thankfully a non-sophisticated apple crumble baked alongside it putting the chicken firmly in its place, and so after being lulled by a homely roast lunch, we talked all day about everything. The conversation topics being life and death, riches and poverty and the benefits of having an imagination. Tables figured large too.
Much later on, a little televisual entertainment induced silly rude shouts about licence fees, repeats, Sci-Fi and the demise of real talent. Nothing new there then. We didn't eat many toffees but just before seven we ate, in a sandwich, all but the very soul of the wretched chicken, it's carcass and skin being left out as a treat for the foxes.
Sunday night came all of a sudden and as I laid in bed with Monty's arse in my face I wanted nothing.

On the menu tonight: Not chicken.