Such guilty pleasures...

Yes - I watched Eurovision.  Didn’t you?

My personal favourite was Dracula from Romania.  I tried to convince Mr SDS that this entry was really just a piss-take (which is what I liked about it) – seeing as the song seemed to be a rip-off of Dr Alban's 'It's My Life' (so much so that it even had the same title) but with predictable, moon-in-June lyrics delivered in an unpredictable soprano voice by a man in a wonderfully, devilishly, outrageous outfit.

I failed...

Well, my joy at the 'irony' of Drac dissipated at the very end of his performance when he gave the look of a sighing diva (possibly pretending to be) overwhelmed by adulation.  Hmm.  But I'm choosing to ignore the signs because I just want to believe it's ironic. And mainly because I need an excuse to watch it again purely for his costume which I have a secret (ok, not so secret now) longing to experience first-hand - or even second-hand.   I have a guilty desire to be embraced and carried off in and to have filthy deeds done to me by the wearer of such a delight.  Not him necessarily - any man will do really - well, any man that would look good in that costume which I suppose does limit it rather a lot, perhaps completely.  But I live in hope (or should that be: "a fantasy world".) 

Would a 'wink' emoticon be too obvious here, or would you think I was being ironic?

Romania didn’t do as well as they should have in my (admittedly warped) opinion, but as every cloud has a silver lining - and as I’d like to find out if that outfit does too - I’ll be searching for the aforementioned costume on eBay shortly.  Some black leather gloves would top it off nicely.

Also this weekend there was a repeat of BBC Four’s ‘…Sings James Bond’ which maintained a level of excitement rarely felt in this household on a cold May evening.  I enjoyed Moby, Garbage and Dusty in particular.  Then as I watched Shirley Bassey in her long, shimmering, spangly dress it occurred to me that I may get to the end of my life having never actually worn one.  Is it too late? 

Kiss this

As he stood in our doorway with the large bag of rare records that he had just bought from us, he reached out for my fingers, bent forward as he held my hand to his mouth and kissed it. “Lovely to have met you”, he said.

We said our goodbyes and closed the door, and as we watched him through the window getting into his car I turned to Mr SDS and said, “I don’t trust him.”  It was the hand-kissing that did it.

I was right not to trust him.  The (substantial) cheque he’d given us in exchange for our vinyl valuables bounced.  (Yes, I know, we should have insisted on cash…)  Numerous follow-up phone calls to both his home and his workplace number revealed the horrible truth that this particularly unsavoury individual had clearly never had any intention of paying.  He had ripped off his work colleagues too, sold his flat and moved.  Obviously keen to avoid answering the door to Joe Hardnutt from Beat The Living Daylights Debt Collection Agency he’d relocated to another continent and word had it that he was living in, of all places, Kansas.  (One can only hope he tried pulling a similar stunt out there…)

If only he had kissed my hand before he wrote out that cheque, our misery at being duped could have been avoided, for it was that sycophantically sleazy, albeit subtle, gesture that gave away his dubious character.  In my experience (to borrow from Samuel Johnson’s quote about patriotism) hand-kissing is the last refuge of a sleazebag.  In every instance that I’ve had my mitt kissed by a stranger there has been something unsettling about it, and about them.  Am I right?  My lovely female readers,  I’m sure, will know just what I mean and agree.  And my lovely male readers, I’m certain, would never dream of doing such a thing.

Picture source unknown

(but with thanks to the friend who sent it to me!)

Yeah yeah yeah

I was absolutely blown away by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs on 'Later with Jools Holland' last week.  That is all.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs: Under The Earth live

(I can't find the 'Later' version)

Footloose

Call me kinky if you like, but my penchant for having my tootsies tickled began at a very early age.  I lay the blame entirely at someone else’s feet… those of the shop assistant in our local branch of Barratt’s Shoes, who first introduced me to one of those... are you ready for this?… one of those foot-measuring gauges.  I think they’re a bit more sophisticated now but the one that first got my virginal young feet tingling was a metal, wedge-shaped platform with a sliding rule that fixed your foot in place to measure the length and – ohhh!  the very best bit! – a soft belt that wrapped around it and slipped into a buckle to determine the width.  There was something about my foot being touched and enclosed in such a sparse yet strangely sensual way, and especially the feeling of that little belt -  so much so that I was disappointed when my feet stopped growing and the placement of them in such a delightful device was no longer required. 

Their desire for attention didn’t subside, though.  As an adult I developed a taste for having my soles very softly and slowly tickled – only it doesn’t actually tickle in that squirmingly unbearable way, instead it soothes.   I go into a happy stupor when my toes are teased, my insteps caressed.  I never want it to end.   And I used to ask, "Will you do my feet?" ("do"!) but I admit I'm spoilt now and let my provocatively wiggling naked toes make their own silent but firm demands.  I truly believe there is an erogenous zone down there that equals any of the other more well-known ones.  It’s just as well you can’t get pregnant through your feet.

Many years ago I had to go for a medical in connection with a job I’d applied for.  It was the first and only time I’ve had to go through one; as expected it was mostly just a case of answering questions about lifestyle and general health.  Then the doctor said she needed to check my reflexes, so she did that thing where they tap you just under the knee, causing that horribly weird ‘dead’ sensation that makes you kick out involuntarily.  Oh, I hate that.  “And now I’m just going to check your feet,” she said, preparing me for a similarly uncomfortable experience, as she asked me to remove my boots and socks and lie down on the couch with my legs outstretched.  I waited anxiously.  Then slowly she started to tickle my right foot with a large feather.  I closed my eyes, let the feeling take me.  Bliss.  She carried on for a little longer and then moved to my left foot.  The feather brushed softly against my sole, lingered tantalisingly around my heel then moved up and oh so sweetly stroked the underside of my toes.  I may even have let out a very quiet but ecstatic sigh - it was all I could do to stop myself crying out "More!  More!"  Finally the doctor stopped, looked over at me with a rather concerned expression and asked, “Erm…. did you feel that?”  I suddenly realised that she had been expecting my feet to jerk, my legs to twitch, my whole body to stiffen in discomfort.  I came back down to earth and explained that, yes, I had absolutely felt it, and that I’d loved every second of it…  She looked at me as if I was mad.  I got the job, though.

I may as well face it.  My name is C and I’m addicted to having my feet touched.  Do you reckon I could get hold of one of those old foot-measuring gauges off eBay, I wonder?  Mmm... that little belt...