Stretching the Truth

Playing the dating game is not all knights and white horses. In the world of dating, the shire might turn out to be a shetland, the armour more like grandad's favourite cardy, all holes and lint.

And once dating has progressed to the point where it's all tongues and touch, there are the practicalities that need to be addressed. But alas the promise of prophylactics although necessary, is none too romantic.

A friend told the tale of her knight as they flounced and floundered he procured a holiday sized box of the before mentioned. Some were unpackaged and unfurled as the moon yawned and the stars twinkled. The night galloped ahead, and it was all pillows and talk. An engaging and satisfying evening.

The two were not to meet for a week or so. After dinner but before they flew between the sheets, prophylactics were again mentioned. She was a little perplexed as to why further rubber recruits would need to be bought as from memory the initial supply had been ample. Her brow furrowed but she didn't mention the absenteeism of the rubber friends. Perhaps, it was a memory lapse and they were simply gathering dust as they jogged towards their expiry date. Or perhaps not.

But as the days turned to weeks, she did wonder. Perhaps the barriers of the night were not simply absent they may have been unfurled somewhere a little remote, where the maidens were fair. Where libidos could saunter and roam and not be hindered by the constraints of the city or conscience. Or perhaps not.

And so in a game where as we mature, we assume we know and understand the rules, we are none the wiser. Actions and words seldom meld and things done and words uttered are often misunderstood and misinterpreted. The straight shooter is wished for but ne'er found.

Of course, questions could've been posed and answered but in the ensuing silence disappointment squandered promise.

As I sit with the dishwasher humming and the cat purring at my feet, I hope the night ahead will be fuelled by happy dreams, and as I wrest with a yawn... a little sleep.

Truth Trudge

The truth of the matter is that we should be packing.

The house fairy did make an appearance and with the bang of a hammer and a little nod as we signed away our souls to an Australian bank, the Pt Chev Team now find that we might be in need of a new name. Once we've moved we can't truthfully say that we're the Pt Chev Team. Mind you how many Whos are left in The Who? But I digress.

Interestingly, 'true' is pressed under 'trudge' in my dog-earred Oxford. To remain truthful could be seen by some as a bit of a trudge. Trudge... a solid if not dogged word, Budge's slower cousin. Now Veracious could be stoical Truth's hard-lined cousin, all tattoos and teeth. Veracious, lounges beneath Venus in my Oxford. Lucky Veracious. I am not qualified to comment on the truthfulness of the goddess of love, one would think though where love is concerned, not all comments are completely trustworthy in the throes of passion. Look at poor old Milo, her arms have flailed her, did they lose their grip or did Veracious rip them off in the heat of the night as they lay pressed and gasping between the pages?

I'm starting to look at my little Oxford in a whole new light, a more seductive glow. Look at the passions it houses, some perhaps, which never rest but simmer and weep through the pages. The secrets that must lie hidden between the lines.

I seem to be on an alliterative trail - Trudge - Truthfulness - Trust.

Trust, the godmother to Truth? She could be wearing sensible brogues and a twin-set with pearls. She could fold you to her breast, but as you press your ear to her heart you can only hear the rhythmic beating of a robust organ, no flutters or quick, lusty beats ever rattle her rib-cage. And in her kindly embrace you can easily be fooled that Trust is indeed a fool albeit a kind one but a fool no less. And a fool can have the wool pulled down over her eyes but her heart can still break. I'd suggest enjoy the embrace but don't mistake Trust with Stupidity.

Stupid surprisingly wrestles beneath Stupdendous, the later none of us minding to be accused of. Stupid lolls without intelligence or cleverness, it could be placed on the car dashboard and left to crack and blister in the sun. Stupidity is not something we relish being accused of, but it shouldn't be confused with Trust or Kindness. These two traits can often temper Stupidity.

With Sod squirming beneath Socrates, I suspect I'd better get back to the kitchen cupboards.