Bugger me, Bergamot!

More horti-porn, I'm afraid.This beautiful, spikey frothiness of a plant is currently flowering chez nous - it's called Bergamot or Monarda. You know the nice smelly stuff they chuck into Earl Grey tea? Goes well with courgettes too, I'm told.

My brain is currently sun-fried. We went on a long walk. Despite being larded up with factor 400, we are all slightly cooked. So, I won't attempt to write anything...it will only be drivel.

Yeah...I know...quoi neuf?

But, check out this pic I took today. On our walk, Spouse spotted this strange sight.

Yes, it is what you're thinking. The snail shagathon continues. Actually, being totally ignorant of all matters snail, I don't really feel confident that they are shagging. Perhaps I'm judging these poor innocent creatures by my own shockingly poor standards. Maybe I'm jumping to rather sordid conclusions too quickly.For a start, don't you think they all look a bit young? Do you get sexually precocious snails? Maybe it's a snail scout meeting, or a young conservative snail conference, or a juvenile snail stick clinging contest. What do you think? What exactly are they up to?

Shagged out

Despite being wholly appreciative of your input, and in awe of your greater experience (in just about every arena)…perhaps asking you lot about the sex scene wasn’t such a great idea. Whilst I value greatly your opinions on the subject and your erudition (Dumdad, I can’t thank you enough for beaver-cleaver) I think I have now become authorially frigid. I cannot put a single erotic word down on paper without wondering whether or not it will pass muster. I have clammed up.My mental legs are tightly crossed - and it's bloody painful, I can tell you. My phwoar-writing muscles have constricted catastrophically. You get the picture.

I did start. My heroine got to the bit where she was about to drop her knickers guard and leap astride the handsome geezer, when she suddenly went all Babs Cartland, started swooning and demanding assurances that he would respect her come morning. It was spectacularly dreadful. If I hadn’t deleted it for shame, I would have posted it for your delectation. For the moment, I have totally bottled out and moved on to another,less challenging scene.

Watch this space. I will be updating you on the struggles with my inner porn-Queen in due course. And possibly asking for acceptable names for female parts.

Lunarially speaking (don’t look it up) my moon gardening calendar tells me it’s a good day for sticking in carrots. You can take that how you like.

I actually took my camera out with me to take pics of snails a-shagging. But could I find any? Could I feckers like. The searing heat that is blistering the paint on the shutters and melting the road outside, has clearly evapourated the necessary lubricant required for snail sauce. I saw one lone snail, dangling hopefully from a leggy weed – I think he was masterbating. Or maybe it was his tongue hanging out. Anyway…there were too many people around…I didn’t want them asking awkward questions.

For the record, my favourite term for the male appendage was/is cock. I can't help being a slapper. Of course, I know that context is everything, and that if I were writing a gardening novella, for example, it would be inappropriate to write: 'Stella gasped as the sweating horticulturalist emerged from the glasshouse, slightly breathless. She gazed wide-eyed at the bounty he held proudly before her, suddenly realising all that gossip at the WI was true...he had a magnificent rhubarb stalk penis.' That would be ridiculous. In that instance, you would obviously use the word tool.

Any old excuse to write lots of filth...

I don’t know if it’s the wet weather. Or the time of year. Or the fact that I’m just noticing it more, because I have sex on the mind. But, I have noticed …something.

The snails are really going at it like rabbits, if you’ll excuse the atrocious mix of natural world metaphors.

On fence posts they cluster in their hundreds like barnacles, oozing and crunching against each other in a fevered (for snails) orgy of escargot erotica. Perhaps, being a regular on the French menu focuses their minds, compells them to slime on out there and procreate. Perhaps, along with their shells atop, they also feel the burden to keep the species alive.

Whatever.

I will snap a photo if I happen upon one of these filthy fifty-up snail shagathons when I’m armed with the camera. A bit of snail porn for you. That should bring the freaks out.

Further to my previous post, I have been ruminating and cogitating on the writing of the sex scene. I am having a little problem with nomenclature. I know not to use thrusting manhood, because Nunhead Mum of One says so. And she seems like the sort of woman who would know when is the right time to employ a thrusting manhood…and when not. I am not to use ‘pet names’ like willy, or zizi or tiddler (?) This advice comes from Non,Je ne regrette rien. And of course, my dear mate Brennig Jones encouraged me to 'peer review' my work. Well, this is a bit like that...in a loose sense. I can’t do a proper poll where you all vote, but if you respond in the comments box, it will point me in the right direction…so to speak.

1.Phallus

2.Penis

3.Love pump

4.Todger

5.Knob

6.Cock

7.Truncheon

8.Sausage

9.Prick

10.Tool

I have a firm (very firm, Mrs) favourite. But I’d like to know which you are most comfortable with, if any…and which ones you find offensive, ridiculous…and of course, which ones aren’t on the list which should be. And while you’re at it. Do you know the collective noun for orgasm?

Writing and sex

In a blog sense, I’m a bit quieter than usual. I am trying to bang out a synopsis for novel number two. It’s tough. I’m very much a go with the flow, whatever feels right, let the story tell itself type of a writer. Plans and charts, graphs and programmes to assist me in my writing, leave me feeling a bit turned off. I have a really strong idea for a book that I think will both play to my strengths and could be very commercial. But how can I nail down all the action from start to finish at this stage? I just can’t. I need space for plot twists and turns. For happy accidents and good old fashioned strikes of inspirational brilliance (we can but hope.)I can’t commit. It's too early in our relationship. So, I’m going to bang out ten thousand words and see where I get to. That’s why I’m being quiet. And after this book idea, I have two others to work on.

Busy busy busy.

Oh yes…and there’s family and real work to attend to. So, all in all, I’m a bit frantic. I will be blogging for light relief.

There is a sex scene waiting for me this morning. I am not over confident with these - the last one I wrote I foolishly showed to Spouse. Why? I'm not sure. Maybe I expected him to like it. I didn't expect him to laugh, anyway. It sort of knocked the wind out of my sails.

So.I am braced. I've had a strong cup of coffee, I have a few clear hours stretching ahead. Here goes with a bit of raunch. Maybe I should go and put my sexy pants on? If this tome ever sees the light of day, it will probably win The Literary Review Bad Sex in Fiction Award. I always remember when Alan Titchmarsh won it. Well, come on, it's hardly surprising. He's not exactly Mellors, is he? I thought it a bit unfair picking on such an easy target. It must be excruciating to win that prize, don't you think? I'm not sure I would ever recover.I'd probably have to join a nunnery.

I know I have a few writers among my regulars. I would be interested to hear how you approach the whole pitch process. Come on, what are your secrets for literary success? Apart from shagging the complete England football team, hailing from Oxbridge,sporting enormous nourkes, being a celebrity chef and having had a miserable childhood? None of which have helped so far.

Does my bum look slightly less gigantic in this?

Owing to the unbelievably shite inclement weather currently being inflicted upon us, there haven't been many opportunities to wear my new bikini. That is, if I had actually climbed off my dimpled arsecheeks and waddled to the shops to purchase one. Which I haven't yet. Just can't seem to muster up the enthusiasm for a tearful afternoon of despondency, dejection and ultimate disappointment.

To ease the pain of this expedition, I thought I might wait until the Soldes de L'ete (The Summer Sales) - at least that way, I may still be a lardy bloater, but hopefully not quite so skint. As with many other French ways, the sales are strictly regulated - and they often all occur at the same time which leads to unedifying scrums and scraps and frequent Gendarme mediation at the bigger shopping meccas. Any self-respecting French summer-sale-attendee will have in their Kit de Soldes, a bulletproof vest (Decathlon do a nice one), gas mask, and pair of stout shoes in which to outrun the water cannon. I jest. I'm just trying to put you off, so that I can nick all the bargains. Most sales start on 25th June and are permitted to run for six weeks only. The date is actually set by The Prefect of the department, so it is best to check here for your specific area.

The local farmers are moaning about the weather. They are cutting their winter feed and leaving it on the ground to dry, only to have rain pouring down on it...and it starts to rot. One old codger told us this week (can't remember the French but the English translation is roughly) Mud in May is followed by dust in August. I bloody well hope so. And Lord knows what all this water is doing to the vines...this years vintage might be a slightly diluted tipple! Now, that is a worrying thought.

Gardening with the loon

It's a New Moon today. You didn't know that, did you? I bet you never suspected me of a being a moon worshipper. Well...I'm not. But, this year, for the first time, I am (roughly) gardening by the phases of the moon.

Pause for cyber-eye-rolls.

I have a little calendar emblazoned with the words 'Jardinez avec la lune 100% naturel.'It tells me when is a good day for planting out my root veggies, pricking out my brassicas etc. The locals swear by it - they will tell you that if you plant your tomatoes out on the correct day according to the lunar cycle, your toms will be fatter and sweeter than the unenlightened geezer's next door who planted on a day better suited to whopping beans. After planting aubergines on the fourteenth of May you are required to dance naked around the garden, beating your bottom with a trowel and anointing the earth with something personal of your own (use your imagination.) Some hardcore fanatics bury a deer's bladder in the soil prior to the growing season - it is said to ensure bumper crops. I don't ask where they get hold of a deer's urinary-storage apparatus. I don't wish to know. I think I can manage sans Bambi bladder.

Everything is growing like stink - but how can I be sure this is the pull of the moon? Not just the wave after wave of rain we are being subjected to? At this time of year wellies should be covered in dust, mouldering at the back of the cupboard. Instead, my pretty pink flip-flops are loitering redundant by the back door.

It will be the summer solstice soon (mooning it again) - after which the days will start getting shorter. They haven't started getting fecking longer yet! Sun? What's that? Whenever I look up in that direction these days, all I see are granite clouds and water sheeting down. Right now I'm wearing three layers, socks and shoes. It's blimmin' well not on. Strewth. I ask you. Gordon Bennet. How's your father. Bollocks. And that.