A night without…………….

Without what?   Coronation Street, supper,  a nice hot bath before bedtime or the chance of  a bit of  mid week naughties with Joe.

I wished.

Any one of those would have been preferable to the tortuous hours I had just spent pathetically rolling around our bed trying to locate the elusive Morpheus.  Rubbing my eyes and stifling a rather large yawn, I ran my fingers through my matted hair, cringed as I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and slumped down on the sofa in resignation.   Cat gave me a quizzical stare, sniffed the air and sashayed out into the kitchen, not even affording me a backwards glance as I studiously examined the chipped nail varnish on my big toe.

Mave, can I have toast with mine, oh and some marmalade but only if its rough cut……a bit like yourself my little night owl…”  Joe’s voice carried down the stairs, breaking off only to allow himself a loud guffaw of laughter followed by the sound of squeaking floorboards, the bathroom door slamming shut and a rather echoing rendition of Mr Sandman to a backdrop of toilet flushing.

“Very funny Joe!”  I threw a teabag into his Superman mug and contemplated a spoonful of salt instead of sugar.  I was used to pulling all-nighters in work but never, ever on rest days. Picking up my mug of tea I studiously watched the bubbles swirl round as Joe’s heavy footsteps made their way back across the landing towards the bedroom.

The night had started off promisingly enough when I had buried my head into the pillow just before midnight, forgoing my usual spoons position with Joe.  After much prodding and ear licking from him which went largely unnoticed by me, and with no promise of anything other than a peck on the cheek, he had promptly turned over and within seconds was expelling air through his mouth with all the elegance of an overgrown warthog.  Closing my eyes I had let out a disgusted sigh along with a rather sharp elbow nudge to his back.  Curling up, I pulled the duvet over my head……..

……..and so it began………

The clocked ticked away the seconds, and the seconds turned into minutes, I tumbled, turned and fidgeted as sleep continued to elude me.  As the minutes became hours and Joe’s snoring reached new crescendo’s, I quietly contemplated the pleasure it would give me to place my £3.99 Argos pillow over his face and press down firmly.

Then, in the true despair of an insomniac,  my nocturnal activities began in earnest;

Phase 1

The object is to travel several miles around my king size bed in search of the most comfortable, squishy position you can find.  You know the one, where your wobbly bits flop to one side giving you the ability to tuck them underneath you or bury them in the memory foam mattress, thus avoiding any unfortunate lumps, bumps or wrinkles.

Not so much a DIY tummy tuck, more of a full-on belly button repositioning.

If I’m lucky it only strays a mere two inches from centre, if I’m unlucky it slides sideways to sit nicely alongside the small butterfly tattoo that was etched just above my right hip during a particularly drunken night out two years ago with the girls from work.   I had woken the next morning full of remorse and holding a pair of huge belly-hugging M&S knickers bought to hide it as Billy Butterfly’s unfortunate positioning meant that his antennas poked scarily over the top of my normal knickers to resemble a stray pubic hair.

If my choice sleeping position is not found, it’s time to move, shift, turn, plump and re-plump the pillows several times before adopting another position.

Lie on my right side….

……….turn over……….

………lie on my left side.

Decide right side is preferable as then I don’t have to sniff or inhale too deeply the garlicky fumes emanating from Joe’s open mouth.

Phase 2

Duvet on, duvet off, one leg hanging out of the bed then two legs hanging out of the bed….all change to both legs in, one arm under the ready plumped pillow.  Ten second pause and change again, this time both legs out enabling bare curvy butt to hang over the side of the bed.

Lie in the darkness and imagine Chucky from my worst nightmare is under the bed.

A feeling of intense fear washes over me.

What if bare curvy butt gets grabbed, bitten or poked by naughty Chucky?  Hastily pull duvet back over bare curvy butt and hope that Chucky doesn’t have a penchant for duck feathers as well as curvy butts.

Phase 3

Lie still, eyes straining into the darkness, auditory senses on high alert waiting for any Chucky-type crawling or thudding noises to emanate from under the bed.

Lie on my right side, lie on my left side.

Right leg over left leg, left leg over right leg…..

Right boob under right armpit…..

Left boob also under right armpit…!

Lie in the darkness, momentarily still and wonder how the hell that happened.   Make mental note to check in daylight if left boob is longer than right boob.

Lie on my back with both boobs under armpits.  Turn on to tummy both arms under pillows,  feel boobs sinking into the memory foam mattress and have visions of Chucky under the bed getting his eyes poked out.  I begin to wonder why men don’t have these problems, and then quietly snigger as I think about where Joe’s love spuds go when he lies on his side.

Turn over too quickly and end up face planted under Joe’s hairy left armpit.  Try hard not to inhale too deeply and then have the delight of what I hope is Joe’s nasal hair brush softly against my cheek.

Left nostril now bunged up, turn over and left nostril conveniently clears but now right nostril is bunged up making breathing difficult.  Try and breathe through mouth but this makes for very unladylike little snorty sounds.  Lie on my back again which is a total waste of time as both nostrils now bung up and start to make awful squealy noises….

Phase 4

Squeeze eyes tightly shut and pray for sleep.

See dancing stars and floaty things, which reminds me that I haven’t taken the last load of washing out of the washing machine which is leaking water into the drum, so all my ‘floaty things’, including my best Primark size 18-20 thongs in Petunia Pink will be sopping wet again…

Shit, there we have it – word association.

Water…..water…..swishing, trickling water.

Now I desperately need the toilet.

Get up, creep around the bed and fall over Joe’s shoes.  Hurtle headlong towards the dressing table and knock the candlestick off, manage to catch the candlestick but not the candle, which hits the wardrobe with a thud.  Leg it to the bathroom, hopping on one foot as the tiles are freezing whilst trying to skate the bath mat towards the toilet to eliminate risk of another bout of tortuous sciatica.


Peel off last remaining scrap of Aldi’s best single ply, wafty bog pager that is attached to the cardboard inner, which then rips and shreds into strips. Hunt around for new bog roll within reach, when this fails, resort to dabbing my nether regions with the remaining floaty strips and twerking frantically in lieu of a blow dry before legging it back to bed.

Both legs in, curvy butt covered, no sign of Chucky, two pillows plumped, right side position, nostrils clear, belly button two inches from centre, everything sucked in, tucked in and secure……looking good…………..

………and then the alarm clock went off.

Joe’s arm had flung out from underneath the duvet, knocking it to snooze;

“Come on lazy bones, time for up, your turn for breakfast in bed………..” 


Stirring two sugars in to Joe’s mug of tea, whilst stifling another yawn, I looked out of the window and smiled to myself.

I had afforded Joe two loving words this morning in response to his request …..and strangely enough, the second word was ‘off’.

(c) 2015 Gina Kirkham

Handcuffs, Truncheon & A Primark Thong




Once Seen, Never Forgotten……….

As the radio burst into life with Heidi’s high pitched squeal from the Control Room, Petey hastily recovered his slouched position in the front passenger seat, eyes wide in anticipation, clutching a scrap of paper and his trusty Bic Biro poised in hand.   Oooh, it’s a job Mave, hope it’s on us, me bums numb with all this sitting……”  

Glancing out of the corner of my eye I couldn’t help but stifle a giggle. It had been cold, wet and very windy on this shift and Petey had dressed for the weather in style.  Ignoring the fact that he was doubled crewed with me in a nice warm patrol car, he had spent twenty minutes in the locker room after Parade preparing himself for his foray into the tempestuous imaginary storms he believed would strike at some point during the evening.

Woolly jumper, body armour, functional jacket topped off with his quilt-lined florescent coat, all strung together with his utility belt clipped on the outside and pulled together so tightly that he could hardly breathe.   He now resembled a brightly coloured, double sided Aldi pan scourer.  I smirked as he struggled to fasten the seat belt around him.

“AM21, AM21 can you start making to a Grade 1, possible Burglary in progress, neighbours report hearing unusual noises from The Harringby Chase, Dawsett Drive.” 

This area was the higher end of the market with large detached houses in extensive grounds. The last job I’d been to around here had ended with me chasing Billy Burglar through a Greek Mythology designed garden hosting several half-dressed statues. I’d lost count of how many times I’d grabbed hold of a rather large manly appendage to stop myself from falling over. In hindsight, even Shirley couldn’t boast to having clutched that many. 

 Putting my foot down on the accelerator, blues flashing in the descending dusk, Petey excitedly acknowledged the call. Heidi marked us down as responding. 

“Bob’s backing you up with Martin, they’ll make the rear of the property on a silent approach.”   

We arrived at the huge Mock-Georgian house in less than four minutes, Bob was just swinging his car into the cul-de-sac that ran behind the house.    He disappeared out of sight.   

A few seconds ticked by broken by Martin’s voice over the radio on talk-through.  “Mave, we’re in position at the rear, can hear banging and shouting coming from the first floor.”   

Petey was fair straining at the leash in rising excitement. He could hardly contain himself, flicking one handcuff round and round in its holder. As he shuffled his boots in the foot well, I placed a restraining hand on his arm.  “Don’t slam the car door when you get out, Martin thinks there is definitely someone in there.” 

He paused and exhaled loudly. “Okay Mave, but stay with me won’t you, don’t leave me on my own it’s dead dark out there…” 

I gave him a sideways glance accompanied by a wry smile.  At least he had the decency to blush.  “… it’s just so I can look after you, that’s what I meant really.” 

He waited for some sort of acknowledgement but I was already thinking two steps ahead.   “Right, we’ll go on the count of three, Bob will be in position by then, okay?”  

With his hand on the door handle, he nodded enthusiastically as I began to count. 

“Okay….one, two…. three.” 

I jumped out of the car and keeping to the shadows, ran through the gates and up the driveway towards the front door. I knew Bob and Martin would be doing exactly the same at the back of the house. Worryingly, although I was pleased not to hear Petey slam his car door, I didn’t hear his usual gasps of exertion coming from behind me either, but I did hear a sort of muffled thwuuuump followed by a loud groan, gravel being kicked and a breathless voice rasping from the darkness. 

“Oh shit, oh bugger, Mavis they’ve got me…. I’m a man down Mave…” 

My heart thudded in my chest. Skidding to a halt, churning up gravel and dust, I turned and ran hell for leather back to where I had left him. Sweeping the beam from my Maglite torch around the nearside of the Police car, it caught Petey slumped against the open door, wedged between the grass verge and the gutter, rubbing the back of his head. 

“Mave, I’ve been ambushed, I’ve been hit from behind, they’ve taken me by surprise.”  

I knelt down to check on him as his muffled wails tapered off. Apart from a huge bump to the back of his head, he was fine.   

“Look at this you ruddy idiot?” I pointed to his handcuffs. “You’ve only gone and handcuffed yourself to the bloody seat belt when you were messing with them before.”   

Fumbling in my pocket for the keys, I ran the scene through my mind. As he’d tried to gather pace to follow me, digging his feet into the grass verge Ussain Bolt style, ready for a quick take-off, the utility belt around his waist which held the handcuffs had refused to succumb to the strain. Even as the seat belt reached its full extension, the handcuff holder had held its own, yanking Petey backwards onto his butt whilst slamming his head against the side of the car. 

“You absolute bloody buffoon Petey…” I quickly unlocked the handcuffs. “Ambush, man down! Where the faark did you get that from? Come on, quickly the lads will be in there by now.” Helping him to his feet, I shoved him in front of me, and started back up to the house.  

Bob, who had already gained entry to the house, was waiting for us in front of the open front door. He had a huge smirk on his face. “You know how you’ve always said that nothing would surprise you any more Mave? Well you’ve just gotta come and take a look at this.”   

With Petey in tow still rubbing the back of his head, I followed Bob up the winding central staircase to the first floor. Turning the handle of the second door along the corridor, Bob beckoned us forward.   

Standing to one side, he opened the door with a flourish…. 

….and there in all his glory was the owner of Harringby Chase himself.

 The Right Honourable Rupert Monroe Carrington-Browne, tied tightly by each wrist and ankle of his lightly tanned limbs to the four poster bed by an oyster pink, fine-grade, woven silk rope. 

If this vision wasn’t bad enough, Rupert had clearly chosen to attire himself in clothes from the Burlesque period and was currently sporting fishnet stockings, a red lace Midi-Basque with matching thong, a rather fetching pair of red spiked stiletto heels and a set of bronze nipple tassels that were now hanging limply down, somewhat tantalisingly, under each of his hairy armpits. 

Sitting next to him on the king-sized bed was the delicious Lorretta LoveHoney, half deflated, slumped to one side, still rapidly losing air via a soft, gentle hissing that was coming from under her left vinyl buttock. She was frozen in time, her ruby red mouth mocking the unfortunate and very miserable Rupert. 

Eyes wide in embarrassed horror, Rupert began to mumble. “She only went to make a cup of tea, but I think she forgot to come back.”   

I picked up an empty monogrammed leather wallet that had been carelessly thrown on the bedside cabinet alongside a glossy call card that announced ‘Mademoiselle Femme Fantasie’.  

“Would this be the lady in question?” I held up the card. 

He nodded and looked wistfully towards the window. “She wasn’t cheap either.” he whispered.   

It quickly became apparent that Rupert, after paying for the procurement of her services, had allowed himself to be ensconced in his current predicament, whereupon she had quickly done a runner with a substantial amount of his cash. 

Trying to show a concerned face of utmost discretion so as not to compound The Right Honourable Carrington-Browne’s embarrassment, I choked back a snort of laughter and turned to look at Petey, who at this point was standing, open mouthed and glued to the spot.   

I threw a blue silk dressing gown at him that had been draped over a nearby chaise lounge. “Petey, untie Mr. Carrington-Browne and help him to get dressed will you, I’ll be back in a minute.”  

Petey caught the dressing gown and gave me a look of complete and utter confusion, as though he didn’t know where to start.

I took him to one side.  

“Just get him dressed Petey and for God’s sake be discreet. We can’t all have the same sexual preferences, don’t make him feel even worse than he already does.”    

As I reached the bedroom door I heard Petey sigh loudly. 

“…. but Mave.” 

I turned and gave him a withering look, just as Rupert chose that moment to disappear under Lorretta LoveHoney’s left buttock in a futile attempt to assist her deflation with more air.  Petey stood, transfixed.

Emerging onto the landing, I came face to face with Bob and Martin who had been using Rupert’s quilted bog paper to wipe away their tears of laughter. Not being so lucky I had to resort to wiping my now streaming nose and eyes on the sleeve of my jumper.  

“Tell you what Mave…” Bob collapsed again into a further fit of the giggles, spluttering over his words as Martin held onto the bannister rail. 

“… it certainly brings a new meaning to the phrase ‘blow job’ doesn’t it?” 

“Bob, trust you! You know who he is though don’t you?” I paused, waiting for some sort of recognition, after all Rupert’s face was currently splashed all over the newspapers due to his high flying political career, but before anyone could answer the bedroom door slowly creaked open to reveal Petey sitting on the bed, with the newly released Mr. Carrington-Browne on one side of him and Lorretta LoveHoney on the other, with a bronze tassel clutched in each of his hands. 

To the faint hissing of Lorretta as she continued to crumple to one side like a weekend drunk, Petey swung the tassels from side to side.  

“…. to be quite honest Sir, I don’t think red is really your colour, or even bronze for that matter…”     

Rupert, holding his head in hands looked pleadingly at me as Petey continued to offer his worldly advice.  

“….. and if you shaved your legs, the hairs wouldn’t poke through the fishnets so much, it really does ruin the full effect you know Sir.” 

Bob let out an almighty groan, Martin sniggered loudly and I just knew that I would never again vote Conservative as once something is seen, it can never, ever, be forgotten.

(c) 2016 Gina Kirkham

Handcuffs, Truncheon & A Primark Thong