Veena/Thursday, 27th April

Fiona came round to our house this morning and totally threw me. I thought she was spying on us, or had come to check on our progress or something. I had a notion to check her for stopwatches and theodolites. Turns out she’d given us the wrong bag of books and had come to swap them. Phil was a bit distraught at losing his Bizarre Facts book and made a great issue of noting the title, author, publisher and ISBN number before he handed it over. As if he’s going to walk into a shop and buy a book!

Fiona also gave us both a list of sexual scenarios we should explore. I read it on the way to work when I’d stopped at the lights. It was so shocking that I stalled the car when the lights changed. Does she seriously expect us to get up to these shenanigans? Some of it is bizarre, some of it is repulsive, and at least half of it is disgusting.

I’m going to type it in here because I have to destroy the evidence in case Roddy finds it.

SEXUAL SCENARIOS

(1) Sex Toys. Try vibrators, dildoes, love balls.

(2) Make love in other parts of the house, away from the bedroom. Try the kitchen, hall, bathroom.

(3) Watch yourself making love in mirrors. Use a video camera if you have one.

(4) Make love outdoors or in the car. Enjoy the sense of danger at the possibility that you might get caught.

(5) Gender swap. Wear each other’s clothes. Let the female partner be the aggressor. Experiment with a strap-on dildo.

(6) Spontaneous oral sex. To be performed when your partner least expects it.

(7) Anal sex. Does not have to include penetration if this is too painful, but the anus is rich in nerve endings.

(8) Bondage. Many people find the thought of being powerless to resist during a sexual session a massive turn-on.

(9) Sado-masochism. This can range from mild chastisement, in the form of a hand slapping buttocks, to whips, paddles and canes.

(10) Latex/Rubber/Leather. Many people find these give a sensuous tactile experience and are also visually stimulating.

(11) Voyeurism. Would you like other people to watch you making love? Would you like to watch other couples making love?

(12) Partner swapping. Not a way to have extra-marital sexual affairs, but a life-enhancing way to share and enjoy your partner’s pleasure with other lovers.

No, thank you very much.

Phil/Wednesday, 26th April

Problem. Sheena phoned me on my mobile to cancel our lunch date. She’s afraid Arthur will find out and it seems he’s the jealous type. I don’t know why she’s so bothered, this is totally innocent, just two old pals having a gab. I’d have no problems telling Veena, though I haven’t yet.

Sheena opened up a bit and told me she was having problems with Arthur. Seems he knocks her about now and again. No punches, just pushing and shoving, but she’s scared. I was furious and told her I’d go down and sort him out, but she said that would just make things worse. I offered her the services of a couple of brickies from one of the sites. When it comes to scaring people, these guys could give Dracula lessons. She laughed at that, but said it wouldn’t work.

“So, is that it?” I asked, “We bump into each other after all these years and then just disappear from each other’s lives again?”

“What were you expecting?” Her voice was soft, confidential.

“I don’t know. Talking. Remembering how daft we were when we were kids. Just a bit of fun.”

“You have a wife and child. I have a husband and two children. That makes it very difficult.”

“Hey, can people not just be pals any more?”

“Of course they can. But ....”

And it struck me like a bolt of lightning - Sheena was up for it!

“Listen, Sheena, I’m not chasing you. I’ve no intention of having a fling with you or anything like that. You can forget it.”

“Ohh.”

And she hung up on me.

I wanted to explain to her, but I hadn’t taken her number, didn’t want to seem pushy, gave her mine.

It’s good for the ego, knowing somebody fancies you, but a lucky escape methinks.

Big Phil called me into his office later. He’s actually shorter than me, but he’s rounder and he’s the boss, which is why he’s Big. Told me the rest of the guys were getting a bonus this month and I wasn’t. I didn’t have to ask him why. He’s just having his little bit of revenge because of last year.

Like he said, “What am I supposed to give you, a disloyalty bonus?”

Veena/Wednesday, 26th April

Uh uh, big problems at work today. I invited Tommy Carter to the Drama Club after school. Not a good move.

We were doing Shaw’s The Devil’s Disciple and I wanted him to read for Dick Dudgeon. I thought he had the touch of devilishness about him which Dick requires, and I was proved only too right.

He picked up on the character right away and, though he had difficulty holding the accent, I was well pleased with him and secretly pleased with myself for unearthing this rare talent.

After the reading was over I gave everybody their notes and called it quits for the night. We’re not doing the production till end of term, so we’ve plenty of time for rehearsals. Everybody drifted off, apart from Tommy, who helped me by collecting the scripts. He asked me how I thought he’d done, though I’d already heaped praise on him during the notes.

“You have a talent, Tommy,” I confirmed, “But what you do with it is up to you. If you decide to take up acting as a career there’s a long road ahead of you, and lots of hard work.”

He gave a little moue, a la Bruce Willis, and said, “I can do it. I want to do it.”

“So why didn’t you come to the Drama Club in first year, instead of waiting so long? You could have had four years of experience under your belt by now.”

“I had to wait ... for you to notice me.”

He was looking me right in the eye, which I found quite disconcerting.

“Don’t blame it on me, Tommy, you’ve not always been in my class for me to notice you.”

I started stacking the scripts in the cupboard as he passed them to me.

“I thought it would be boring. Shakespeare and stuff, like we do in class....”

“We do Shakespeare in Drama Club. Quite often actually. I’m not offering classic training here, but if you can master a bit of iambic pentameter, you’ll have no fears doing the stuff they churn out nowadays.”

He passed me the last script and his hand lingered against mine. “Thanks for taking an interest, Miss, I really appreciate it.”

He winked at me, picked up his bag, and left.


He winked at me!!!!

Call me a paranoid old bag, but I think a certain Master Carter has a crush on his English teacher.

Phil/Tuesday, 25th April

Well, that was a waste of time. Fiona’s books were what you’d get if Mills & Boon did technical manuals.

More importantly, today my dream came true!

Well, almost.

I was driving downArgyle Street this afternoon when I saw this woman at the bus-stop, and I swear she was exactly like in my dream - Sheena Gray.

I parked the car, double-quick, and ran back to the bus-stop. Luckily there was no-one else there, because when I got up to her, I realised I felt like a right prat. What was I meant to say to her?

I stood at the stop, glancing around casually, and she turned at one point and looked right through me. I realised I’d have to do something pretty fast, or her bus would come and I’d be left standing there like an utter prick.

Finally, I gathered together the small amount of courage I’ve got left after 15 years of marriage and cleared my throat noisily.

“Ehh, excuse me. Your name wouldn’t happen to be Sheena Gray would it?”

She shook her head and said, “No.”

I shrugged, smiled weakly, and was turning to walk away when she added, “But it used to be.”

Would you believe it - Sheena Gray! After 25 years!

Well, it’s Sheena Burns now, because she’s married to some fella, Arthur or something, who works in computers in East Kilbride. We were having a right good gab when her bus came, but I said bugger it, took an unscheduled half-day and gave her a run up the road. She’s still a sweetheart, full of fun, laughs all the time, and we're going to have lunch tomorrow and talk about the old times, looking forward to it.

Veena/Tuesday, 25th April

I think I have to detail last night’s activities quite precisely because they were so weird. Roddy went off to bed as normal about nine and we sat about watching television till 11.30. The bag of books had been lying in the hall untouched since we came home. I don’t think either of us was very sure of how to proceed. Were we to flick through them casually at our own pace, or follow a schedule covering a certain number of pages each night? As a teacher I would have recommended the second methodology, but Phil has such a horror of programmed learning that I was quite prepared to follow his lead.

I must have been in the loo when Phil brought the books through, because the bag was lying on my bedside table and Phil was already peering at a fairly thick volume. He looked up as I climbed into bed and said quite seriously, “Did you know that if you yelled for 8 years, 7 months and 6 days, you would have produced enough sound energy to heat one cup of coffee?”

“No?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “I don’t know what it’s got to do with sex, but it’s in this book.”

I checked, and he wasn’t kidding.

“What kind of book is this?”

He flicked to the cover.

“A Book of Bizarre Facts. Is this Fiona’s comment on our sex life?”

“You still headed straight for it. We’re supposed to be learning sexual techniques.”

He arched his eyebrows in a pale impression of Groucho Marx. “Says here the tongue is, pound for pound, the strongest muscle in the human body.”

“Oooh, now you’re talking my kind of language.”

He licked his lips. “That’s me, the cunningest linguist in town.”

“Yes, dear, I’ve never had any complaints on that score. You could lick pussy for Scotland.”

He referred back to the book. “Also, it’s impossible to sneeze with your eyes open, you can’t kill yourself by holding your breath and polar bears are left handed.”

“Fascinating. But is this helping us sexually?”

“No. Sorry.” He pushed the book away and I pulled another from the bag. It was very basic and dry. Line drawings of flaccid penises and ovaries.

Phil made a face. “Naah, does nothing for me.”

“Ditto.”

I pulled out another book, an academic study on why India, a country that had produced the Kama Sutra, had become so prudish, even barring kissing in movies. Was this down to Muslim invasions or British Victorian influence?

Interesting but not stimulating.

“Fiona’s got a strange taste in erotica,” Phil said, “Next up it’ll be the Haynes Ford Escort manual.”

“Is that a sexual position?” I asked.

Phil grinned. “Interesting concept. Sexual positions according to brands and models of motor vehicles.”

I yawned and Phil took the opportunity to shove the books off the bed. He turned out the light and kissed my forehead, then the tip of my nose, and then my lips. We made love in a Renault Megane kind of way.

Veena/Monday, 24th April

Phil seems to have partially emerged from his Neanderthal period and I hope we can now proceed on a more civilised basis.

Fiona has given us some books and magazines to look at (which I’m going to have to keep well-hidden from Roddy). Again, I’m not too convinced by this. Phil has no difficulty in looking at dirty books, magazines, pictures, videos etc. His problem lies in doing something about it, vis a vis me!

Still, if we share our perusal of these manuals in the comfort and privacy of our own bed, perhaps we can both get turned on enough to benefit. In any case, I hope this will only be the fire that lights his touchpaper. The thought of basing my future sex-life solely on Phil getting turned on by strumpets displaying their sordid wares makes me want to throw up.

This is me that was trying to encourage him to look up porn on the web. It’s no wonder he’s confused. I’m confused.

Fiona also said she wants us to be generally more adventurous. This worries me.

Phil/Monday, 24th April

Hey, she’s not a bad old stick, Fiona. Gave us a pile of dirty books to bring home. At least I can now see some tangible benefits from the fortunes we’re paying her. If they’re any good I might take out a subscription.

The thought of reading them with Shorty isn’t too appealing, because I know what her reaction will be. If she’s not criticising some poor girl for having nail polish and shoes that don’t match, she’ll be having a go at them for being dirty trollops.

It’s a small step from there to feminism and human dignity, and me having no respect for individuals in general and women in particular. We’ve played this game before. I then say, ‘These women are exhibitionists. It’s a medical condition, and you’re impinging on their human rights by not allowing them to display themselves in the scud and fulfil themselves as human beings.’

This, of course, is red rag to a bull. She thinks I’m trying to be funny about a very serious subject and I get a lecture on exploitation. I counter that if that’s exploitation then I’ll have a large dose of it. Give me a couple of grand to get my kit off and wiggle Willie-Boy about. This gets a dismissive snort and I’ll fall asleep worrying that Veena’s not really happy with Willie-Boy’s general dimensions.

Be clever, Phil, you can see it coming, so let’s not go down that road. Agree with her!

Veena/Saturday, 22nd April

Pig-face got drunk last night. Came home staggering and giggling away to himself. Has spent the entire day lying on the couch moaning and drinking irn-bru. A fine example to set our son. If he won’t bother I don’t see why I should.



Phil/Saturday, 22nd April

Writing this on a bus on Sunday morning. Have to go and pick up the car after a bevvy session with the guys on Friday night. Hope I can remember where I left it.

What a hoot of a night. MacDonald had had lunch with one of the contractors, so was a few paces ahead of the rest of us. At one point he cornered me at the bar and started on about Veena again. I was trying to tell him to sober up when he stopped me in my tracks.

“It’s her arse,” he said, “ I adore it. Worship it.”

I was going to get ratty with him, when I noticed there was a single tear coursing down his cheek. Now I felt sorry for him, his was one of the wives who didn’t rate a mention yesterday.

“Oh aye,” I said, “Worship it?”

He nodded eagerly. “Aye. It’s perfect. It is the epitome of the female posterior. The best tush in town.”

I shrugged nonchalantly. “Ah, it’s not bad.”

Charlie Webster, who was leaning over us to get to his drink, heard me. “Veena’s arse? Who are you kidding, it’s a work of art. You’re a lucky bastard, Wilson.”

“It’s only a bloody bum,” I said desperately.

“A bum? A bum?” MacDonald had grabbed my shoulders. “How can you say that? I’m telling you, it’s beautiful, and I worship it.”


Writing this on a bus on Sunday morning. Have to go and pick up the car after a bevvy session with the guys on Friday night. Hope I can remember where I left it.

What a hoot of a night. MacDonald had had lunch with one of the contractors, so was a few paces ahead of the rest of us. At one point he cornered me at the bar and started on about Veena again. I was trying to tell him to sober up when he stopped me in my tracks.

“It’s her arse,” he said, “ I adore it. Worship it.”

I was going to get ratty with him, when I noticed there was a single tear coursing down his cheek. Now I felt sorry for him, his was one of the wives who didn’t rate a mention yesterday.

“Oh aye,” I said, “Worship it?”

He nodded eagerly. “Aye. It’s perfect. It is the epitome of the female posterior. The best tush in town.”

I shrugged nonchalantly. “Ah, it’s not bad.”

Charlie Webster, who was leaning over us to get to his drink, heard me. “Veena’s arse? Who are you kidding, it’s a work of art. You’re a lucky bastard, Wilson.”

“It’s only a bloody bum,” I said desperately.

“A bum? A bum?” MacDonald had grabbed my shoulders. “How can you say that? I’m telling you, it’s beautiful, and I worship it.”


“Me too,” Webster added.

“Aye, but I was first,” MacDonald argued, “I am the first disciple of Veena’s arse.”

“Hey, hold on, I’m her husband.”

“True. You are in possession of the holy grail, so to speak. And we’ve no argument with you on that score.

As long as you don’t mind us adoring, admiring and worshipping it ... from a distance, of course.”

The rest of the guys had gathered round us now and were nodding in agreement.

“It’s like a religion, Phil,” Wee John said, “And you’re the Pope.”

“Here, that’s a bit sacrilegious. I’m not a very good Christian, but I know my commandments - Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife’s ass.”

“But I’m not your neighbour. I live in Rutherglen.”

“Oh well, that’s okay then.”

Anyway, that’s how the night started, and it only got worse after that. If Veena ever finds out, she’ll kill me.

Veena and Phil have not had a good week. Diary writing seems to have hit an impasse at the weekend as a War of Silence ensued. Phil’s binge drinking is obviously a factor, though not a primary one I suspect.

On reflection the Beyond the Beast therapy does not seem to be right for them. I had hoped the challenge would help them to re-engage, but the reverse seems to have happened.

With a view to encouraging them to explore new areas of sexuality together, and therefore re-ignite a sexual spark, I have given them some literature which I hope they find stimulating both erogenously and intellectually.

Phil seems to be taking the process more seriously now. He was very attentive during the session and didn’t feel the need to punctuate the conversation with rude remarks. This may be due to the bollocking Veena gave him for his inebriated behaviour.

Veena/Friday, 21st April

Had a nice cuddling session last night. Almost as if Phil really believed in what we were doing. He was really attentive, cuddled up to me spoon fashion, kissed the back of my neck and worked some magic on my various bits with his fingers. He was very erect behind me and I could feel him thrusting at my bottom, which added to my excitement, but once I’d finished and turned round to help him, it sort of faded away. A sort of Lone Ranger deal, where you save the town and then gallop off without accepting any thanks.

Come to think of it, he felt more like Silver than the Lone Ranger actually.


Major embarrassment of the day - started bubbling in class. Not too bad, because I managed to muffle it behind a tissue with a pretend sneeze. We were doing Shakespeare’s Sonnets which have a tendency to set me off.

Tommy Carter was reading -

‘When my love swears that she is made of truth,

I do believe her, though I know she lies,

That she might think me some untutor’d youth,

Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties.’

Tommy’s a good-looking lad with a strong reading voice. He should take up acting. I’ve never seen him turn up at any of my drama club’s gritty productions. I’ll talk to him. Maybe have a word with careers guidance as well, hate to see talent going to waste.

Phil/Thursday, 20th April

Strange reaction from Shorty last night. No kisses, no cuddles, nothing. From searching for the G-Spot to total zilch. Is this hormonal or just female perversity?

We were talking about wives at work and MacDonald said he’d fancied Veena something rotten for years. All the other guys chimed in and said, yeah, Veena was a bit of all right.

Not to get too big-headed, because various other wives got the thumbs up, but I do believe I’ve got the tastiest missus out of the whole gang of us.

The less attractive wives weren’t mentioned, out of a sense of gallantry, but I’m sure their husbands got the message, poor bastards.

There’s more to love than looks, boys!

Spent a lot of the evening looking at Veena. Fair enough, she’s no supermodel. She’s petite, with short black hair. She wears specs, has bouncy little tits and a perfect bum.

I like her.

Veena/Thursday 20th April

Roddy didn’t have a tummy ache last night but there wasn’t a problem. We just said ‘good night’ to each other, ever so politely, turned over and went to sleep. Well, I did, I have a vague recollection of Phil taking an age to settle.

Roddy decided to have his sore stomach this morning instead, so I made a doctor’s appointment for the

afternoon. Dr Adams poked around Roddy’s middle, which Roddy found ticklish, and announced that he couldn’t find anything wrong. Fancy!

He will make a consultant’s appointment at the Western.

Roddy is concerned that hospital visits may interfere with the hectic social life he has planned for the summer.

I assured him that by the time he reached the top of the Western’s waiting list he would be 83 years old and wouldn’t have much of a social life left.

Phil has been in a strange mood since he came home from work. I keep catching him looking at me. Is this guilt? If I deprive him will he fly into someone else’s arms? Or was he flying into someone else’s arms previously, which is why he was depriving me?

Who is this someone else?

Phil/Wednesday, 19th April

Jesus Christ Almighty, now she wants me to try and find her G-Spot.

This was last night, lying in bed. I told her I was a construction manager, not an explorer, but she didn’t seem to find that particularly funny.

“It’s okay,” she said, playing the wee coquette, “It’s only manual exploration. Fiona will allow it.”

“So I’ve heard. Is she not going out with a vet?”

“Not up there, silly. There.”

She was leading my hand astray.

“Listen, Veena, this is stupid.”

Her cute little face turned to fire. “No it’s not. You just don’t want me investigating my sexuality.”

I turned away from her. “I’m done with investigating. Exploring is for wee boys. Anyway, I’m knackered.”

She hauled me back round again. “You’ve got the stamina and the perseverance of a sloth.”

“I’d check with David Attenborough before I made statements like that. There’s an entire species there you could be denigrating.”

She smiled at that and snuggled into my chest. “Just try for a little while.”

I started exploring again. “How will we know ...?”

“Oh, I’ll know. Kate said ....”

“Bloody Kate! Can the woman not take up knitting or something.

One minute it’s find the bloody clitoris, then it’s find the greater spotted female orgasm.”

Through little grunting sounds she said, “Well you did eventually, didn’t you. A bit to the right please.”

I manfully probed away for another few minutes. “My finger’s getting sore. Are you sure this thing actually exists? I’m sure I read somewhere ....”

“Quiet!” she barked. “There! Harder!”

“Listen, could you not find it yourself, and sort of give me general directions. It would save a hell of a lot of time.”

Her breath was coming in little short bursts. “Can’t. Finger’s too short. Keep going.”

Pains were shooting up my forearm. “My hand’s going numb.”

With my free hand I prised her thighs apart and pulled my damaged hand away from her.

“No!” she wailed, grabbing for it back. “I was almost there, I’m sure of it. Something was happening.”

“Aye, my hand was going to drop off through lack of blood. Listen, don’t fret it, we’ll try again sometime.

Your birthday maybe.”

Veena/Wednesday, 19th April

Phil is a pig.

I wrote that first thing this morning. I’ve calmed down now.

I phoned Fiona this afternoon, just for some reassurance. Seems I’ve been playing this totally wrong. I shouldn’t be encouraging Phil, I should be playing the ice-maiden. We’re supposed to revert to our teenage years, yes, but I’m supposed to be guarding my precious virginity and fighting him off, not defying him to get more finger in. What Fiona doesn’t know is that it never happened in reality.

From the moment I decided Phil was the one, I have offered him no resistance at all. Yes, I’ve snogged a few guys over the years, and played a bit of touchy feely, but Phil’s the only one I’ve done the full dirty deed with.

I probably stand out like a mutant in this day and age, but that’s the way it is.

So, if Phil does get the horn through denial, and I then start fending him off, the poor bugger’s going to be even more confused than before, and the chances of him achieving a solid erection, like he used to, fall to zero.

I didn’t tell Fiona this, which I suppose was wrong of me. I didn’t want to be stigmatised as a woman who’d never slept around.

So, what do I do tonight? There are several options-

(a) We both turn away from each other and fall asleep, like any ordinary night.

(b) Phil’s horny and comes on to me and I play along. (Throwing Fiona’s therapy out of the window.) (c) Phil’s horny and comes on to me and I knock him back, denting his confidence totally.

(d) I am horny and come on to Phil and he knocks me back. (Is he just obeying Fiona’s instructions or does he no longer love me, as I have suspected for some time?) This doesn’t bear thinking about.

Just thinking it is terrible, but I hope Roddy’s got a sore tummy tonight.

Phil/Tuesday, 18th April

Well, young Roddy threw a spaniel in the works by deciding to have a sore gut and wanting to sleep with his mammy, so I was demoted to his room.

Considered indulging myself in some manual petting on a solo basis (permitted by Frau Fuhrer Buchan as far as I know) but decided it wouldn’t really be right in the kid’s bed.

Had a very strange dream, and I want to get it down on paper before it flees from memory.

There was a girl I fancied at primary school, Sheena Gray. She had orangey brown hair, a hint of freckles on her cheeks and an upturned nose. We were 10 years old and it was first love time, frantically trying to be with each other, but denying it to all our mates to avoid a slagging. I desperately wanted to do something to her, but I wasn’t quite sure what. I haven’t thought about her or seen her in over 25 years, since my dad moved us away from Knightswood.

I don’t know what brought her to mind, maybe it was sleeping in Roddy’s bed, we’d have been about his age.

Anyway, she wasn’t a kid anymore, but a full-blown woman, walking down the street. I was driving past, saw her, and slammed on the anchors. I jumped out of the car and walked up to her. She cocked her head to one side a little and lifted an eyebrow, just like she used to when I tried to get her into the garden shed.

“Sheena?” I asked, and she nodded slowly.

“It’s me, Phil.” I was practically jumping up and down.

“Phil?”

“Phil Wilson. I was at school with you. Primary school. Knightswood. Didn’t have a moustache then”

She nodded slowly again, I could see her eyes racing back to the time. She’d grown into a stunner with long legs and a lazy smile. In reality she was just that slice above pretty, but a woman who knows she’s got it, and

all the more horn-provoking because of it.

Now her face broke into the lazy smile. “I remember you, you used to try and kiss me all the time.”

I grabbed her hand. “Yeah, and sometimes you used to let me.”

She laughed and pulled me towards her. “You’ll be wanting a shag then?”

That’s it. That’s all there was to it. Nothing happened. I woke up. But it was something sexual and I’ve dutifully noted it down.

I had an erection that was harder than the Chinese alphabet.

Veena/Tuesday, 18th April

Fiona’s celibacy dictum seems to have the blessing of the fates. Roddy wanted to come into our bed as he had a sore tummy, so Phil went through to Roddy’s room. Phil didn’t have my trim, sensuous body to tempt him, much to his relief, no doubt, and I got a full night of Roddy’s elbows and knees. But he felt fine this morning and went off to school.

Half day at work, so had long lunch with Kate. Wanted to talk to her before complaining to Fiona. Kate says this ‘Beyond The Beast’ therapy is frightfully effective. The ‘forbidden fruit’ bit is so obvious to us, but men just don’t understand it because they’re such babies. It doesn’t take much to get them to revert to their teenage years of groping, fumbling, and desperation.

“Expect a permanent stiffy and premature ejaculation!” Kate announced proudly, which was a bit awkward as

we were just being served our soup at that very moment. It was only a pub lunch but I could swear the barman reddened.

Kate then went on to reel off some anti-man one-liners she’s obviously been saving up.

Here are the ones I remember -

Men are like lava lamps - fun to look at, but not all that bright!

Men are like snowstorms - you never know when they’re coming, how many inches you’ll get, or how long they’ll last!

Men are like cement - after getting laid, they take a long time to get hard!

I laughed like a drain. Kate is in charge of herself, no doubt about it, and it’s all down to Fiona, so I’ve got to give her some trust.

Kate has found her G-Spot.

Phil/Monday, 17th April

Well, that was a turn up for the books. At our meeting this evening Old Fifi told us to stop doing it altogether.

I knew it would come to this, what does an old boot like Fifi know about sex? Let’s face it, with a coupon and a body like hers the last time she got laid was when the bow and arrow was a secret weapon.

Anyway, she’s given us a sheet of paper with a list of do’s and don’ts. We are allowed to kiss, including tongues, I may add; and we are allowed to sleep in the same bed. Manual petting is permitted, but there is to be no oral/genital or genital to genital contact. ‘Genital to genital contact’? That’s called shagging, you daft bugger, even kids know that, so why not just say it. ‘Cause then you wouldn’t be able to charge exorbitant fees, isn’t that right, Ms Mind-Fucker?

Anyway, Veena’s usually quite happy with just a kiss and a cuddle, so there’ll be no problems there. But what if there’s a mad rush of blood to Willie-Boy’s head? It’s going to take more than a piece of paper to stop him enjoying his conjugal rights, and I’m sure every court in the land would support me on that one. Especially if the judge’s a man.

This could be an interesting night.

Veena/Monday, 17th April

Is the woman mad?

I argued for weeks with Phil. I finally took us both to the doctor’s for a general check-up. We’re fine for our age. Then I argued for more weeks before he’d agree to go and see Fiona with me. And now she tells us she wants us to stop making love? Listen, idiot, we’re not screwing anyway, that’s why we consulted you.

I’m not daft. I know this could be some kind of ‘forbidden fruit’ theory, hoping that Phil will jump my bones once he knows he’s not supposed to, but she doesn’t know Phil. This just gives him an excuse to fall asleep.

And snore. And fart.

What happens to a man’s intestinal tract once he’s married? During even a long and protracted courtship it is the very pinnacle of decency and gentility. The minute the keys of the marital home are turned, his guts turn putrid.

I’m digressing. The fact of the matter is that Phil, being an obstreperous bastard, will not perform according to Fiona’s dictate, and I will remain unshagged. With regard to manual stimulation being sanctioned, I have no interest in having Phil rubbing my fanny for half the night searching for an elusive orgasm. I’m better at it myself, and he knows it, which is why he doesn’t bother.

I will repair to the bath before bed tonight and give myself a damn good soapy seeing-to, and then I can turn over and fall asleep exhausted. Tomorrow I will phone Fiona and speak to her privately.

Veena/Sunday 16th April

No time for a diary entry yesterday, I’m afraid, because Roddy was in one of his states. Still complaining about a sore tummy, and didn’t even want to go to football. I think I’ll need to take him to the doctor for a check-up.

I just hope this isn’t some kind of symptom he’s displaying as a result of watching his parents row. Dr Adams

is a fine man and a good quack, but he’s known all my family far too long for me to admit any troubles to him.

On the sexual front we have had no advances from Mr Wilson, and any I have made have been rebuffed. On Friday, I admit, he was tired and so was I, it’d been a long week at school. So we went to bed early - to sleep.

Yesterday was difficult, of course, with Roddy being in all day, but Phil started drinking at lunchtime and collapsed into bed shortly after he’d had his dinner around 8.30. He spent the day watching TV till his pals,Willie and Al, turned up, and then proceeded to listen to David Bowie albums at a ferocious volume while playing poker. It is hard to feel romantically inclined towards a man who plays along to Panic In Detroit on air guitar in front of people I regard as relative strangers.

Why does he mix with these people?

Veena and Phil are a nice, intelligent, couple, in their late 30s, married for sixteen years, who are experiencing some relatively minor problems. Veena believes Phil has lost interest in her sexually and their frequency of intercourse has certainly decreased in the past year. Veena also believes that Phil has difficulty gaining and maintaining an erection, though Phil denies this.

They have begun keeping diaries logging libidinous activity, on my recommendation, and hopefully this will make them more aware of where their problems stem from.

However I am moving to intervention at an early stage because I believe their problems can be quickly solved with a confrontational approach. As they were childhood sweethearts I am therefore imposing enforced celibacy for a very limited period. This is a variation on Hoerdigger’s ‘Beyond The Beast’ Therapy, and I fully believe that within a few days they will be, in the vernacular, ‘gagging for it’.

Phil/Friday, 14th April

Ha bloody ha! A sex diary? As if I haven’t got enough to do all day. It’s all right for Veena, she can ponce about at the school and scribble at her desk when she’s told the kids to get their heads down. But I’m in a job where the bosses don’t appreciate you finding your inner-self on their time. Plus which, if any of the guys saw me punching my laptop at lunchtime they’d think I was sucking in with the company, and if I told them what I was really doing I’d be a laughing stock, which is something you can make at home with an Oxo cube and a joke book.

But, just to please Veena and prove that I do care about our relationship I’ll go along with this nonsense.

The bold Fiona Buchan says, “It doesn’t matter who reads the diary, what matters is that you write it.” But writing stuff that nobody’s going to read smacks to me of masturbation, and I haven’t had a wank since ... oh

.... 9.30 this morning.

Anyway, I’m making a broad declaration right now, if only to myself, I do NOT have a problem in the trouser department!

Phil/Saturday, 15th April

Veena brought a book back from school - Hints & Tips on Keeping a Diary or Journal.

Is she trying to tell me something?


Seems I’m to write stuff as if somebody will read it, including my thought processes and reasoning etc., as this helps clarify things. If Fiona Buchan thinks she’s going to turn my personal musings into a research paper or thesis she’s got another think coming. Once this farce is over every file is getting deleted. Hold on, I’m sure I read that the FBI can recover deleted files. Okay, once this is over I’m throwing this laptop in the bin. Then I’ll burn it. Then I’ll bury the ashes. Then I’ll tell the company it was stolen.

Okay, here goes.

What this therapy lark is all about is me being tired. Nothing more complicated than that. Veena doesn’t seem to realise that I’m not a teenager anymore. Or that I have a very physically demanding job, which she doesn’t.

I’m up and down ladders and scaffolding all day, frequently lifting heavy bits of kit. When I get home I’m wasted. All I want to do is kick off my shoes and put my feet up. And, yes, sometimes when it gets to the bedroom stakes I’m too tired for nooky now and again, and anybody with any sense of justice would understand that.

Apart from the tiredness I’m perfectly fine and healthy. All my parts are in perfect working order. I still behave like all the other guys and ogle passing girls. I whistle and make lewd comments, fulfilling my role as a sexual predator.

There is no connection or comparison between that and Veena’s complaints.

Whistling requires little physical exertion, whereas what she expects of me requires a great deal, especially if you’re doing it right with all the bells and whistles, special effects and in 3D. I don’t love the girls I leer at. I don’t want to marry them. I don’t even want to have sex with them. But I do love Veena, I did marry her, and I do want to have sex with her.

I’ve tried to explain this to her, but she usually responds by saying I shouldn’t be tired at weekends then, and why don’t we have a little orgy to ourselves. Because I take a drink to relax at the weekends, I say, and of course that’s the start of another barney about my excess drinking. Do you deal with alcohol abuse, Ms Buchan, or are your interests exclusively in the nether regions?

So, bottom line. I work hard to give my wife and son a decent life. I don’t like grief. What’s so wrong with that?