Lancaster sex seduction: pie and peas

this makes me incredibly hungry. oh, and i could have a bite to eat, too!

<winks coquettishly whilst deftly putting a pie in the oven>

Lucky bastard…

I’m pleased there is no thinking …

As from some Peter Sellers film say this in an outradegous French accent…

I ‘ope you ‘ave ‘appiness all your life

;-)

Thanks F. I can only ever plan my life until about next Tuesday at the latest, but if it could carry on like this for a while I’ll be happy.

What’s butter pie?

That opening paragraph was distinctly British. Read it a few times just to absorb the local flavor. Or, flavour, if you will.

I often feel that kissing is an even more intimate act that intercourse itself. Is that odd?

It always starts off uncomplicated. I hope it lasts a good, long time.

H: Butter pie is a Lancashire speciality, made from potato and onion, cooked, as you might guess, in butter. It’s often got a good bit of black pepper, which gives it nice bite. I’d never had one until I arrived in Lancaster.

UB: Kissing is incredibly intimate, I agree, and such a turn-on. I can hardly stand up sometimes.

And yes, I know there are things round the corner which you can’t see, but I don’t want even to think about them yet.

butter pie?? The north definately is another country…..

Lancashire, love, not a generic “north".

It all sounds lovely. Uncomplicated and sweet with anticipation.I think Trina sounds great.

Are you going to do anything particular in London?

Well– I wanted to go to Dulwich Picture Gallery, which I’ve never been to, but it’s closed on Mondays. London’s always shut. On World Cup Final night in 2010 me and Kitty and Melissa were chucked out of a pub at 11pm. Thousands of Dutch and Spanish were around us, but no–it’s 11 o’clock, go home. All the markets (because we like our food) are all shut on Mondays. World City my arse.

But I know a nice little unknown square in Mayfair, not mentioned anywhere, just Lithuanian nannies, trees, pissed up non-workers, and I’ve suggested we could have a picnic there (and snog and half-fuck). She likes the idea and has suggested champagne. That’ll be Cava then.

Veggie Jon would fucking LOVE butter pie.

(I don’t like butter, so I won’t tell him about it.)

This all sounds very agreeable. I’m happy for you, hole in shoe notwithstanding.

I used to frequent the gardens next to the Audley Street library in breaks from being the pianist in Warner’s meat fridge, thinking I’d perhaps meet a rich, literate woman who would let me sleep in her library. Perhaps they don’t go to parks, or not Mayfair ones.

Ah, the pleasure of tits.
The gentle manipulation, the feeling of semi-spherical lumps of fat under the rolling palms.
The thickeing of erectile tissue on both…

Sorry, I’ve got to go for a cold shower and a cheese and steak pie(closest thing to a butter pie in carnivorous NZ)

H: Don’t like butter!? I suppose you could always make it for him. I’m sure hed show you his gratitude one way or another!

KK: Thanks. The holey shoe is becoming a bit of a motif in our early relationship.

T: Just Google mapped it–yes that’s the one! Damp grass and benches that may well have supported a pauper’s bottom might be a bit infra dig for the kind of woman you were after. Some fairly fit au pairs though, obviously interviewed by the father and selected for their skilful use of the tight trouser.

TSB: I’ve always thought it’s a disadvantage having had a biologist’s training and now you’ve proved it.