I WAS talking to my wife the other day. Well, I was listening to her. Sort of. You know how it is, when you are watching sport on TV, have the paper to finish and wonder how you can successfully intimate, without inviting personal injury, that a fresh cup of tea would be acceptable.
Anyway, I caught half of what she was saying.
“I’ve got a book you should read,” she said. “Fifty shades of ...” and another gold medal brought a roar from the crowd.
Still, I got the essence.
Even I had heard of Fifty Shades of Grey, the erotic novel that had outsold Harry Potter and become a viral hit around the world. A novel of male domination and female submission and set largely in Seattle.
Perhaps that had been the catalyst? My wife has relatives in Seattle. Perhaps she had thought it a travel guide before getting hooked on possibilities.
But by heck, what was a Yorkshire lad to do? Adapt the back bedroom? Equip it with a blow up mattress and a pair of fluffy handcuffs? Would a cricket bat do instead of more technical equipment? What had Victoria Wood said? “Beat me on the bottom with a Woman’s Weekly.”
Would that suffice?