That's great ice loved it.
I've done my piece, but decided to only do CJ's arrival at my house in case you think it's rubbish. Can't do google docs either so I'm uploading on here. Hope you like it.
VALENTINES DAY WEEKEND FOUR DAYS
Good! The lights are on, she’s still home. I thought I’d missed her. That bloody M4 coming up from Bath had been snarled up at Swindon making me late and she hated tardiness in a man. “I like my men to come when they’re told” she always says. Hmm, I’ll probably have to pay for that later, but must say I’m rather looking forward to the punishment. Four long tours in Afghan, a messy divorce and a silly dalliance with a young flibbertigibbet medic makes you yearn for a strong, ample mature woman who knows exactly how to please a man, especially in the baking department. Her buns are legendary and she certainly knows a thing or two about cream horns. I get that familiar tingle in my boxers as I approach the front door with trepidation. Damn those hard papery multi-lingual washing instruction labels they stitch in pants these days, they’re always so scratchy.
I ring the bell and wait. Nothing. I stoop down and peer through the letterbox, trying to detect any movement. Suddenly a pair of short chubby legs appear from the kitchen doorway, clad in fishnet stockings and suspenders. I gasp in delight as she looks just like Madonna, another crush of mine. But then I spot the varicose veins and slight black stubble poking through the fishnets at shin level, and realise that it’s not Madonna after all. To be fair, Madge probably wouldn’t be seen dead wearing those Crocs either. In fact, come to think of it, the only similarity they share is their date of birth, but a man can dream.
I can now see her full body and face and it’s a sight to behold. That beautiful tattoo on the left bingo wing which reads “CJ Forever” in swirly writing always lifts my spirits, but I’m alarmed to see there’s a new one on the right bingo wing, still dark and bruised so obviously fairly recent. It reads “Or at least until the new series of Poldark” and my mind is in a whirl. Have I spent too long away from the UK? Has she forgotten our last weekend together at the Travel Lodge in Hartlepool? I realise she had a bout of heartburn and trapped wind for most of Saturday night, but to me it was magical.
As she peers towards the front door I see she’s forgotten to hold her stomach in any longer, and that sexy muffin top she always carries rolls beautifully over her washed out grey Spanx pants. Ah yes, the post natal baby fat she’s always telling me it is. I haven’t the heart to tell her that I know for a fact her son is 23 and living in a yurt with his friend Jolyon on the outskirts of Brighton.
“It’s me, Charles, let me in – I’m your Valentine surprise from Brize Nor-hun” I breathe through the letterbox, in my most manly deep voice because I know she loves it when I say Brize Nor-hun. “Is this an appropriate moment?” (I know she likes that line too). “Are you alone?” I ask, suddenly panicking because she’s turned her back. It’s a relief when I see her merely putting in her “posh top set for visitors” out of the glass of Steradent and changing out of her Crocs into some demure stilettos before walking along the hallway like Dick Emery to pull back the bolted door. I know how popular she is with the opposite sex and for an awful moment I thought that awful Rupert from Helmand or Homeland or some God forsaken place had been sniffing around again.
“Well, well, well thish ish a shurprise Bosh Man” she splutters, obviously still trying to adjust the gum-line co-ordination. “Luckily for you I was late back from the chiropodist with my corns and have only just finished baking. If you’d been any later you’d be wearing your rock cakes for ear-rings!” Damn and blast I knew she’d be angry.
She fetches a dining chair to stand on and crushes me to her bosom, whereupon as I’m nuzzling I find a folded up piece of paper in her ample décolletage, along with a half-eaten sausage roll and a carton of Um Bongo. Jealousy pricks me once more as thoughts veer towards a love note from that damned Aidan Turncoat chappy and his sexy scarred face. I burrow down further and fish them out with my teeth and she grabs them from me. “Ooh I was wondering where that’d got to, it’s my prescription for some more KY Jelly…oh and THAT’S what happened to my lunch” and she put the piece of paper behind her ear and munched on the remnants of sausage roll whilst and guzzling at the carton. What a woman! Multi-tasker or what!
“Come in and lets have a game of chess, Charles” she smirks. “What’s so fucking hilarious about chess?” I counter as we stroll into the lounge, and she giggles and looks up at me coyly through her dark undereye bags, “You know how I like to expose your bishop”. “Sorry, it’s these low slung combat trousers, I can’t get away with high waisted tangas”. “Oh I’m not complaining, Charles, besides they won’t be on for long, this is strip chess and will end in the kind of check mate you’re going to like”