page 1 of 3
contents
of issue 76
back
issues
the
gazette
recipes
small
ads
contacting
us
weblinks
Sometimes I feel like Rapunzel, sitting in my ivory tower doing a little
fine needlepoint and growing my hair long enough for a passing prince
to rescue me from a lifetime of meaningless embroidery.
From time to time a prince of some sort does come to the foot of the tower.
"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your long hair."
I peep out. There's a geeky anorak sitting on a mule. In horror I quickly
reach for the clippers and shave my head. I favour the eager prince a
pitying glance while rubbing my hands across the fuzz.
Time passes. The cry comes again: "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your
long hair."
This time it's a rough diamond with holes in his boots. In a frenzy, I
begin weaving extra-long hair extensions till my fingers bleed. No need:
my loveable rogue is picking the lock. In no time at all we're having
a candlelit supper that even Hyacinth Bucket couldn't top.
But the menu is written in a language I don't understand. I tell him what
I'd like to eat. He reassuringly orders for me a starter of codswallop
served on a light bed of shredded truth with a drizzled dressing of lemon
and balderdash, followed by overdone clichés in a bullshit sauce
and seasonal seduction, finished with a pudding of rhubarb and lies. Of
course it tastes delicious, but then I think I'm eating something else.
It's not until the cock crows that, magically, the menu translates itself...
It happened last Sunday. Yes folks, 14 months of celibacy came to a passionate
end on Saturday night.
I thought I had carefully negotiated my way through the minefield of misunder-
standings that can weave their way through flirtation, dating and that longed-for first kiss. I laid my cards on the table, I was honest about what I wanted
