Dear Dreary.
My wife has recently left me so i would appreciate your thoughts on whether i should ask her to come back. I was apparently heard whispering sweet nothings to my new love in the greenhouse. I tried to explain but she was having none of it and has gone to her mother's. I think i want her back, but i cannot hide my passion for my latest flame. The warm, damp air of the greenhouse, and the earthy smell of frisky, immature tomatoes never fails to make my marrow bulge. The muggy atmosphere and the hint of a warm breeze through the open skylight makes me want to slip my monogrammed m+s briefs over my wellies and rub lovely fresh peat all over my juicy cucumbers and throbbing sprouts. A sunny location is vital for achieving maximum length, allied to just sufficient nourishment and encouragement. That's what got me into trouble. A nosy neighbour overheard my earthy words of
love to my ripening lovelies and was obviously under the impression that i had a woman in there. As if! Once i've closed the blinds, the greenhouse is MY territory, and nobody else shall ever enter. It's my own little world. My
pleasure. My perversion. I need to be alone to choose the moment that i cast my seed into the waiting, fertilised earth. Nature's seed mixed with my own is a gloriously fruitfull combination that has germinated many prize-
winning exhibits. My marrows boast a legendary girth, my carrots are straight and eager, and the beef tomatoes are juicy and inviting. My courgettes have really come on this year. They perk up no end when tenderley kissed and stroked. I talk dirty to them and promise them an evening in their favourite dark, warm place. They take it in turns, and once they're in there you can even feel them twitching into life. They all bring me such pleasure. There have been many times in my private glass pleasure dome when i've screamed out in ecstacy, my whole being aroused by the smell and feel of nature. The plants seem to be stimulated by my rough, soiled gardening gloves, never washed in ten years loyal service. I love the feel of them against my skin. My wife doesn't understand. Do you think i should ask her back?
Alan Titsmarsh,
Much Mulching.
Dear Alan.
Do you not recall that hoo ha in the village when Miss Hardsheath, the school headmistress was suspected of fiddling with Godfrey the gardener on the hearsay of Old Mrs Jessop eavesdropping by the pantry window?
Caused a right old stink!
The transcript of what old Jessop heard ran as follows:-
Let's just grab a handful and slap it on the kitchen side. I need something hard, rigid and firm to clasp with both hands.
Always use fingers and thumbs and warm those tight balls in your silky palms.
Spread evenly, rolling gently back and forth, aargh that feels good.
I'm ready for your filling now, all if it! Coming dear!
Now, lick your fingers and yes, you may run your tongue around the rim.
Now slam it in, hot for twenty minutes, I want to see it rise up in front of me.
Both hands now, there, done. Cigarette?
All that scandal over a hot jam rolly polly!
Yes, take her back, show her your ripened marrow and fertilisation technique. What girl could refuse!
Let me know how it goes!
Dreary. x