Besides the loving up on Valentine's Day, and the hammering at the Colony this weekend, there were more concerning events at hand that went down this weekend.
Much more concerning.
My mother thinks I'm a sex maniac.
Let me explain. I am a sex maniac, that I cannot deny. But there are some things in every sacred mother-daughter relationship that should just go unseen.
She popped in for tea on Sunday at 10:00am, just about the time I got back to my own flat, still dressed in the clothes from the night before. I looked like a recently sodomised badger, so she was somewhat charmed to say the least.
Third World Ant and I had left our recently acquired porn carelessly on the coffee table. Too late, she saw 'Horny Housewives' and 'Wet Cotton Panties 2' before we could remove these.
She also saw condoms on my night stand. Not ordinary condoms mind you, because that would be too easy. Rough Riders. Holy crap.
Then, as if it doesn't get worse, she saw my dildo. My lumo pink Bushwacker 3 000. She leant over to look at the book I am reading - a literary prose about a London prostitute - and the thing could've slapped her in the face.
She didn't say a word. How could she? She probably went home and had an aboplexy. I cannot look at her.
And I'll bet my next salary cheque that Dad got a phonecall as well.
Moral: Hide your sex life away at all times. Bury it. Never let your guard down. Ever.