Dear Edwardian lovers

If you are with the person with which you are courting or being courted by and you happen to be out on a Summer frolic—perhaps it was a bicycle ride in the nearby woods?—and you are caught in a sudden rainstorm then, clothing lashed wet by the sudden squall, you look for a nearby place to shelter in such as a gazebo or straw-lain barn, then please do not consider my shed.

It's small, it's dirty. It's got tools, with points out-thrust. Also, we're pretty sure the leccy is illegally installed, the shed itself being an unapproved structure and therefore it's a Fight club esq situation of 'Rule 1: if something happens in the shed, then nothing happened in the shed; Rule 2 Ibid' insurance-wise.  As in if there was an accident there our insurance didn't cover it. I get paranoid if anyone but us goes in there.

So if, clothing damp and steaming, bodies pimpled by the unseasonably cold rain, you gaze upon the other as one of you reaches while the other, heart pounding, accepts the touch having yearned for it lo these many months, please don't use my storage facility. Because as you explore each other's bodies with a kind of sleepy sensuality—your love-making taking on a somnolent dream-like quality what with the rain steadily beating upon the roof of the structure you are in, and likely one that is considered legal for storage but not for long-term inhabitation—you may injure yourself on the poorly-stored boxes, furniture from the earlier strata of our SharedLife, or tools within. Also, there's a LOT of insects in there. Oh, and arachnids (1).

Thank you for you time and look I think it's cool you two crazy kids finally hooked up; click-click!

(1) Look, I know. It's a fucking ego thing. If I remember a previous post that's event remotely tangential to a topic at hand I will, if I am energetic enough to, link to that post. I feel like I am shouting into the dark sometimes (1a). Don't worry, I'm not actually that morose. I still love being me and love being around. I mean, what's the alternative? Exactly. On is better than non!

(1a) Don't you love how online newspapers coda any article with a suicide in it with the standard trifecta of links to beyondblue, Lifeline, and some other 'don't kill yourself!' effort just in case you're prompted to do likewise (1b)? They're right to do so, even if it feels like it's one of those social-expectation things. Like taking your hat off in a drinking place created by a coterie of returned veterans. Naturally when I have written a post about depression websites (1c). But seriously big-ups to those people who are empathic enough to man the phones at Sads call-lines like Lifeline. That's a gig I could never do. I've only ever done volunteer work once for one hour about five years ago when I flirted with being more active. I talked to perhaps three people and the very first person primly told me to fuck off because I had just called at their dinner-time. Still I got to meet Stephen Jones, then head of the CPSU. He took time to come to talk to us trained organisers about recruiting peeps for the union. The only person I semi-recruited was theBeve and then he eventually fucked off to the elysian fields of work-from-home-contracting where he can literally stride across his house like a honky cast member of the Fat Albert gang and sit down and be at work. Smug-occasionally-bearded c___. But seriously I miss working with you, man. You were an awesome fucking person to be a colleague with. I don't have one any more—an awesome colleague—they've all left me. I feel like the little Golden Book Tugboat being washed out to see. Also the word string Golden Book Tugboat tickles my fancy. As does 'Golden Book Tugboat tickles my fancy'. Once more for the crowd!—Golden Book Tugboat!

(1b) Don't you hate those smarmy pricks like me that smugly point out something you've said is an urban myth or just chillingly send you a link to a snopes entry like the scary man has told you on your phone that they're in the house? Like for example me when I now tell you the 1920s Weathergirls hit of 'It's raining (stockbroker)men' of financial types side-walk diving from skyscrapers is in fact a myth ("They're going to get absolutely stinking red!... and mushy"). How many suicides are you aware of from Wall Street types over the 2008 financial melt-down? I can't think of any.   

(1c) 'Oops I ... did it again!' (1d) Linked back to an old post!

(1d) Confession: I LOVE Britney's song 'Lucky!' I LOVE IT!