Alex Comfort’s The Joy of Sex looked like one long advert for a ‘past sell by date’ Greggs sausage roll.
Author: Jaci Stephen
Apparently, we “wealth-hoarding boomers” are living comfortable lives in homes we own, while the struggling younger generation can’t get on the housing ladder and are barely surviving on low incomes, bless ’em.
I’ll relish my Sunday roast, sitting alone, as other people’s brats run riot in the restaurant, or older children sit glued to their iPhones, wishing they could be anywhere else.
Bloody penises. Seriously. Bloody effing penises. How much easier my life would have been without them. Why did I have to be born straight?
I never took to Big Jane, an enormous doll with tarantula eyelashes that my parents bought for a small fortune. I loathed her, and the only time she came out of her cupboard was when the church needed her to play baby Jesus in the nativity plays.
A supposedly romantic dinner in Paris turned sour when the man opposite said: ‘I think you’re the funniest, smartest and most interesting woman I’ve ever met – I just don’t fancy you.’ Talk about an Eiffel of dreams come crashing down.
I identified as a four-year-old and absolutely smashed it in the local primary school’s egg and spoon race.
I never have to report where I’m going or tell anyone what time I’m coming home – heck, I don’t even have to come home! And often don’t. Places to go! People to see!
She started to sweat profusely, then went into a kind of shaking tremor where I could see she had lost consciousness. Fainting, or a heart attack? I summoned up the zero amount of medical training I have and started to fan her profusely with the inflight magazine.
Rain, rain and more rain. There’s nothing quite like this country’s weather to send Brits scurrying to websites, fantasising about how much happier they would be if they left the drizzle behind for a new life in the sun.