SEX

Yes. Sex. That is this evening's musings. I would usually be at yoga round about now, but following a Samson style shedding of my long locks, I met a friend for drinks, and was unable to dog down while tipsy.

I have been growing my hair for 7 years now, it was long, and could be plaited and twirled and flicked but I wanted something new. As a snake sheds its skin. I wanted to shed some of mine.

I took advantage of the Toni and Guy Academy and paid the 25 pounds my mum sweetly sent me for a whole new look. I had full head highlights and a graduated transverse cut, or some such, for the cost of a usual trim.

It is lighter. It is 1920s flapper girl. It reminds me of sexual acceptance at school. I had always been the bookish one. Who boys never noticed. Til I took on my role as Tallulah in the Bugsy Malone musical at school. With a tight corsetted black satin number, boys soon realised I was not so bookish after all. And so Anthony Kelly, who played Knuckles, finally noticed me. Fabulous, furtive fondlings and platonic sounding sleep overs followed.

Following my sobriety journey - fondlings have been somewhat off the menu. As what a role the social lubricant of wine and beer and moijtos and B52s plays in the sexual emancipation of young ladies set astray in Hong Kong, or any other part of this world come to mention it.

So I leave the salon, bounce to the ferry, scribble madly in my journal to the F.E.A.R courtesy of the legendary Ian Brown and manouevre my way home. I feel full and bountiful of Eastern promise. I play my new Florence and the Machine CD. Which is resplendent.

I want a play mate. I have none. So devoured a Haagen Dazs Vanilla and Almonds icecream instead.

I may be bootcamping, and yogaing, and pilating, and TRXing, but without some other outlet... the icecream will win out.

Sobriety bites.

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