but I found myself on impulse seeking out the studio. He was sitting there, chilled behind his mixing desk with headphones hooked round his neck when I went to ask for Coldplay’s ‘Yellow’. He apologised, said he didn’t have that and asked if he could choose something else instead. I was on the bumper cars when I heard, “this one’s for Alison Kirk”. He’d chosen ‘Walk Like an Egyptian’ by the Bangles. On my way back, I popped my head round his door, asked why he’d played that one. He said there was a touch of Cleopatra about me. I ended up getting in some coffees and helping him out the rest of the afternoon. And that’s, short and simple, how it started.
We reminisced about this and a few other Brighton memories today, as we always seem to whenever we’re by the sea, wherever we are in the world. It’s been a glorious day to turn thirty. A perfect picture postcard weather kind of day. There’s not been a whisper of a cloud to blemish the rich, cornflower-blue sky. The sun’s shone bright and hot, a real result considering we’re still in March. We walked for two hours on the beach this morning, a huge, deep carpet of white-golden sand. We soaked up the sunshine, ambling along, holding hands, stopping from time to time for Adam to skim stones. The best he could manage was a four-jump skim on the water’s surface. I didn’t think that was particularly good, but when I had a go, my stone didn’t kick up even once. It was just swallowed, guzzled by the waves.
Lunch was al fresco at a seafront bistro, down to our T-shirts it was that hot. We shared a huge tureen of mussels, a big bowl of thin chips and a bottle of Perrier, before catching the tail end of the market in the Town Square. All that, followed by a spot of browsing for antiques, has exhausted Adam. He’s lying on our Emperor-size hotel bed, having a snooze. Which gives me the perfect opportunity to take back what is rightfully mine. I tiptoe round to his side of the bed and gingerly pull the top drawer of his bedside table open. The panties are lying there, pretty in pink, daring to be put on. I take them out, checking all the while for any signs of Adam stirring. Mission accomplished, I pad to the bathroom.
I undress to my black camisole, step out of my M & S knickers and into my new panties. I love clothes, I really do. They’re my biggest extravagance, especially shoes. I’ve got at least forty pairs of footwear. Not a patch on Imelda Marcos, but pretty impressive all the same. Anyway, despite spending a fortune on outer garments, I’ve never really been one for underwear. And now that I’ve put on my new panties, I don’t know why. The touch, the sensual feel of them on my skin is a new experience for me. They’re smooth, expensive and deliciously silky. These are no ordinary panties, but a lethal weapon. All the more perilous because you can’t see them coming. I feel sexy and special, excitingly dangerous, powerful and in control. My reflection tells a different story. These knickers are as out of place on my rump as a bacon sandwich in a synagogue. A glamour puss should be modelling them, not someone whose boobs undulate less than still water. I don’t care though. It’s how you feel that matters, and if Adam thinks I’m going to let the next lucky guest of Room 240 have an early birthday present by leaving them in the bedside drawer next to the French Bible, he’s got another thing coming. They’re far too irresistible not to wear, despite their provenance.
“Ali?” pipes a voice from the other room.
Adam must have woken.
“I’m in the bathroom,” I reply.
On reflex I bend to remove the incriminating evidence, but then the new me, the pink panty clad me, decides against it. To hell with Adam and his jealousy, he can like it or lump it. It’s my birthday. I can do what I want. So I catwalk carelessly into the bedroom, head for the wardrobe and start flicking through the
We reminisced about this and a few other Brighton memories today, as we always seem to whenever we’re by the sea, wherever we are in the world. It’s been a glorious day to turn thirty. A perfect picture postcard weather kind of day. There’s not been a whisper of a cloud to blemish the rich, cornflower-blue sky. The sun’s shone bright and hot, a real result considering we’re still in March. We walked for two hours on the beach this morning, a huge, deep carpet of white-golden sand. We soaked up the sunshine, ambling along, holding hands, stopping from time to time for Adam to skim stones. The best he could manage was a four-jump skim on the water’s surface. I didn’t think that was particularly good, but when I had a go, my stone didn’t kick up even once. It was just swallowed, guzzled by the waves.
Lunch was al fresco at a seafront bistro, down to our T-shirts it was that hot. We shared a huge tureen of mussels, a big bowl of thin chips and a bottle of Perrier, before catching the tail end of the market in the Town Square. All that, followed by a spot of browsing for antiques, has exhausted Adam. He’s lying on our Emperor-size hotel bed, having a snooze. Which gives me the perfect opportunity to take back what is rightfully mine. I tiptoe round to his side of the bed and gingerly pull the top drawer of his bedside table open. The panties are lying there, pretty in pink, daring to be put on. I take them out, checking all the while for any signs of Adam stirring. Mission accomplished, I pad to the bathroom.
I undress to my black camisole, step out of my M & S knickers and into my new panties. I love clothes, I really do. They’re my biggest extravagance, especially shoes. I’ve got at least forty pairs of footwear. Not a patch on Imelda Marcos, but pretty impressive all the same. Anyway, despite spending a fortune on outer garments, I’ve never really been one for underwear. And now that I’ve put on my new panties, I don’t know why. The touch, the sensual feel of them on my skin is a new experience for me. They’re smooth, expensive and deliciously silky. These are no ordinary panties, but a lethal weapon. All the more perilous because you can’t see them coming. I feel sexy and special, excitingly dangerous, powerful and in control. My reflection tells a different story. These knickers are as out of place on my rump as a bacon sandwich in a synagogue. A glamour puss should be modelling them, not someone whose boobs undulate less than still water. I don’t care though. It’s how you feel that matters, and if Adam thinks I’m going to let the next lucky guest of Room 240 have an early birthday present by leaving them in the bedside drawer next to the French Bible, he’s got another thing coming. They’re far too irresistible not to wear, despite their provenance.
“Ali?” pipes a voice from the other room.
Adam must have woken.
“I’m in the bathroom,” I reply.
On reflex I bend to remove the incriminating evidence, but then the new me, the pink panty clad me, decides against it. To hell with Adam and his jealousy, he can like it or lump it. It’s my birthday. I can do what I want. So I catwalk carelessly into the bedroom, head for the wardrobe and start flicking through the
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