Am in London alone for New Year's Eve.

The Boy was supposed to visit - at least that's what I was told. Last night he rang after midnight to say he couldn't come up, in fact he had gone skiing, perhaps I could fly out and join him instead?

With less than 12 hours' notice. On December 31st.

Why couldn't he get here? Because it would be too expensive to change his ticket, of course. I'm amazed that someone who professes so little ready cash can throw a pile together to hit the European slopes - but not to see in the new year with his girl. Nevertheless I scoured the Web to see if by miracle I could be waking up in France. BA were booking no flights before January 2nd. It was even too last-minute for Lastminute.com.

So I regretfully declined. He didn't seem that bothered, to be honest. Suspicious? Of course.

Went into town for lunch, a haircut and to wander round the V&A. I spied with my little eye...

...that everyone who got on the tube at King's Cross got off at Knightsbridge, leaving the crowded carriages virtually empty...

...a man walking two dogs - one huge rottweiler, one tiny pug. They were both burly, black-coated, and the rott took one step to every three of the pug's...

...an adolescent girl tucking in to salmon and cream cheese on a bagel, with chips...

...three men walking together in matching black knitted caps...

...and three girls coming the other way in mismatching pink knitted scarves...

...on Exhibition Road just outside the Natural History Museum, leaves from this autumn have been mashed by thousands of tyres to leave an orange-gold pattern in the street.

N and I met last night to share a drink and mutual holidaytide misanthropy. His preferred tipple these days is Bailey's on ice, which is virtually pudding in a glass. As I raised my glass, a man we knew pushed past, spilling half my drink on my jeans.

"What's her problem," I sniffed.

"Nothing a fortnight in a Turkish brothel wouldn't fix," N said. Thus inspired, we spent the rest of the evening compiling list of people whose attitudes would be much improved by such a holiday.

In need of a fortnight in a Turkish brothel (rough draft):

Naomi Campbell
Penelope Keith
Princess Anne
Cherie Blair
Jordan, though she may actually enjoy it
Sam Fox
Blair's Babes
(E)liz(abeth) Hurley
Lady Victoria Hervey
Myleene Klass
Any Jagger ex or offspring
Theresa May
Tara Palmer Tompkinson
Sophie Ellis Bextor
actually, any blonde for whom the descriptors 'It Girl' and 'double-barrelled' apply
Catherine Zeta Jones

"There is a client, he wants to pee on you," the manager said. I swear if someone ever got hold of transcripts of my phone calls, they'd probably think I was a - oh wait, I am.

"He wants to what?" I asked, knowing very well what she said.

"Pee. On you. Don't worry darling, not in your clothes. You will be in a bath."

"A bath of what? Urine?"

"No, just a normal bath."

I sighed weakly. "You know I don't do degradation."

"Oh, no, not like that at all, darling," she said. "He doesn't want you to be degraded. He wants to pee on a girl who enjoys it."

Eventually I agreed, but only with a significant markup in the usual fee. The client was rather nice and seemed exceedingly shy. We talked for a little while and had a drink - spirits for me and a large beer for him. The better to fill the bladder with, I suppose. When it came time to do the deed I stripped him from the waist down, got all my kit off and knelt in an empty bathtub.

He looked at me, looked at the wall above me, and sighed. Nothing happened for a couple of minutes. I was starting to get cold. "Is everything okay?" I asked.

"It's not going to happen. I'm too turned on," he said. He looked down again. "If I look at you, I'll get hard. If I look away, I'll think of what's going to happen, and get hard."

"Try thinking of something that doesn't turn you on."

"Such as?"

"Your mother shopping for underwear for you. With you in tow. Aged 35." He started to laugh. I felt the first trickle hit my neck, roll down my breasts.

Afterward I showered while he watched me. He started to make vague shy-guy noises as I dried my hair and dressed. "Are you okay?" I asked.

"I think I have some more," he said, blushing, gesturing toward his knob. "You don't have to say yes, but I don't suppose I could put it in a glass and -"

"Er, no thank you," I said. "Health and safety and all that."

"Some people drink it for their health," he offered.

"Yes, and some people think an all-meat diet is good for you." I put my coat on and kissed him on the cheek. "Perhaps another time, when I've had more warning." And a stomach pump to hand.

Everyone must be either back from holiday or so tired of their families and 24-hour coverage of all things Bruce Forsyth that surfing the Web for borderline porny weblogs has begun to rule the majority of waking hours again.

Welcome back!

I had a splendid holiday, involving heavy familial narcotic use (not administered by me in an effort to make the visit bearable, but still helpful), shopping for waterproof trousers and a minor fender-bender. Here's hoping for more of the same in 2004, minus insurance companies.

I have never been the sort of girl to make New Year's resolutions. Such things are bound to lead to teetotaler parties, ill-advised marriages or worse. Once I resolved to use floss and mouthwash before brushing every day for an entire year. This was before I realised (some 1.4 milliseconds later) that maintaining such a level of dental hygiene was not only unlikely to last an entire week, but also massively unattractive. Would you want to wake up to a full-on Broadway musical starring your beloved's tonsils every morning? I think not.

Another year I planned to keep a handwritten diary. Miraculously I made it to the 6-month mark, spurred on by simultaneous reading of the diaries of those vastly superior journalists Kenneth Tynan and Pepys. I gave up when I realised my jottings were unlikely to be destined for posterity, owing largely to an absence of having my wig deloused or all-night drinking sessions with Tennessee Williams. Nevertheless, even the most reluctant leopard may exchange her stole, and I have given some thought to what good deeds and resolutions I could enact in the next 12 months.

It is hereby resolved that I will never buy an own-brand bottle of lube again. Never.

I believe there is some chance of keeping this one.

Revised itinerary - having discovered a surplus of credit in various accounts and a Bessie Mate From Home not averse to a shopping sesh, I shall be trawling the many and varied counters of Harvey Nicks in Leeds until further notice. By which I mean 'probably a day or two.'

Even with my advanced hunt-and-gather skills, I am unlikely to find this memoir of a Catanese teenager, 100 colpi di spazzola prima di andare a dormire, much as I really really truly want to read it (found at Pour en parler...).

Right, I have been waiting absolutely weeks to say this.

Happy Christmas, ho ho ho!

xx
Belle

(It made me laugh anyway. Happy sixth night, I am eating white chocolate gelt at the moment which is cooler than cool.)

That whole UK weblog rubbish and having heaps of spare time have gotten me following too many links, now. So I ran across the Mayfly Project - in which people are asked to sum up their year in 20 words or fewer - and am thinking about my own entry. Maybe something like

Heartbreak, hard choices, hair dye. Suffering, soul mates, shoes. Grace can be learned. Good makeup worth the investment. Need sleep.

There's something fundamentally rewarding about potting your own history, and I suppose at work, I do it all the time. So a Mayfly Job Description might go

Overeducated trollop would love a glass of wine, discussion of fashion and politics. Now what did you want to do?

Mayfly Afternoons are usually along the lines of

Can I go out without waxing? Probably not. Eat now as there's no time later. Need more stockings and books.

and a Mayfly Life

Moved so often home coincides with hat location. Family great, if emotionally distant. Never one to say no on principle.

So is there a Mayfly Future? The lifecycle of the insect would indicate perhaps not. We'll see.

The manager is a doll, but easily confused. Case in point - I was sitting in the back of a cab last week while the driver tried to find the Royal Kensington Hotel - which, incidentally, doesn't exist.

I was a quarter of an hour late. We finally decided she must have meant the Royal Garden Hotel, Kensington. The driver waited outside while I checked the name and room number at reception. It was, indeed, correct. I gave the cabbie the thumbs up and he drove off.

The client was freshly showered and wearing a white towelling robe. We walked through to the suite's front room, where another woman sat drinking wine, already topless. She was a small blonde cutie from Israel.

I took off her skirt and shoes and undid the ribbon ties on her black silk knickers with my teeth. I had been told she was his girlfriend but something about it didn't quite jibe. He seemed to know her no better than I did. If she was a working girl, she definitely wasn't from my agency. Instincts can be wrong, though, and in threesomes with someone's girlfriend the best course of action is to lavish attention on the woman. It was no hardship - she smelled of baby powder and tasted of warm honey.

We moved on to the bedroom. He went at me from behind while she kneeled down to work at me with her tongue, fingers and a mini-vibe. I found his exceptionally smooth body fascinating - someone's been spending plenty of time down the waxing salon, I thought - an effect compromised by his rough, untrimmed beard. The whiskers tickled and scratched as he lapped at my girl-parts.

'I don't know what you had in mind,' I said, as my time started drawing to a close, 'but I think it would be great if you came all over both our faces.'

The Israeli girl licked her lips and winked at me. A pro. Had to be, had to be.

Afterward I produced a small bottle of apricot oil and she gave both me and the client the most luscious massages. If I hadn't enjoyed it so much, I would have been jealous of her skill. I gathered my clothes from the rooms while she pummelled and kneaded his back.

The client went to collect my coat. I gave the girl a kiss and nodded at the bottle of massage oil in her tiny hand. 'Keep it - you'll make better use of it than I will.' He came back and put a possessive arm around her, and my mind switched over again. Escort? Girlfriend? I couldn't be sure. The tip he slipped me was equal to the fee.

Special Report - in which Belle really loses her rag.

You're probably up all night, tossing and turning and wondering, as I do, 'How can she stand it? How can she bear to live off ill-gotten gains?'

By which of course I mean the Guardian competition.

It has troubled me. When I entered I reckoned on no chance of winning because of the recent vintage of my writing, the subject matter and my desire to remain anonymous.

After the win I considered asking for the prize to be donated to charity and had one in mind. After all, the money is nice but not really needed. I'm all for modesty when appropriate, and it is so en vogue to fling honours back these days. Having a conscience, especially a heavily advertised one, makes for more column inches than accepting your gong with grace.

What changed my mind was the remarkable ire the Guardian's choice ignited. I've expected and received email from those who disagree with what I do. This is fine, everyone has the right to his opinion. I like that feedback because it keeps me on my toes. But to flame someone for an acknowledgment of their writing? For the waves this is making, you would have thought I screwed Bruce Sterling to secure the prize.

He so wishes.

This is not to overlook the people who have been lovely, online and in email. Thank you - you are all smashing! Also many congratulations to the other winners and commended entries, the status of whose relations with Bruce Sterling are really not my concern.

The prize was given for 'best written,' and though I don't think my writing's the best even within the limited sphere of competition entrants, much of the criticism is extremely childish. So they gave the nod to a sex worker - as Garfield the cat says, Big Fat Hairy Deal. I wrote, they awarded, it's done. That people have a problem with this makes me very belligerent indeed. So I'll keep the cheque, thanks. Mama needs a new pair of Jimmy Choos.

If you think the Guardian chose poorly, why not show them up and write something compelling? Reckon your life is more interesting, your insight more relevant, your wit more sparkling? Proud resident of the moral high ground? Think you can make me laugh with pleasure at your clever turns of phrase? That's what the Web's here for. Prove it. I look forward to adding you to my sidebar.

The Guardian hath spoken and laid a garland at this doorstep. It would be rude to refuse.

The results of the reader vote are in. 'Four in a bed' won easily. This is good, because of the three offerings it's the only one involving someone mentioned here - N, of course - and for which I have diary entries to plumb from that time.

Yes, I have (or had) a written journal. So this writing lark didn't happen overnight, after all.

A few years ago I was moving to London. I met N whilst househunting and we hit it off immediately. 'Hit it off' being a coy way of saying 'grabbed a room in the first hotel we could find.' A couple of days later, when we came up for air, he mentioned his female friend J and the possibility of a threesome. He'd had threesomes with her several times before and vouched for her beauty and overwhelming sexuality.

We were sitting in his car, looking at the river near Hammersmith. 'Sure,' I said. I hadn't been with many women, but considering all the ground he and I had covered in a weekend it seemed impossible to refuse. He rang her to arrange a meeting, and this is how it went from there.


We met J at her place and went for brunch. His description of her was perfect: small, posh and sexy. She walked with a stick. Food was nice, talked about sex and underwater archaeology.

Back at hers I made hot cocoa for N and me. When he went out of the room she kissed me and asked how many women I'd been with. Lied and said eight or nine.

We drank the cocoa in the front room and N said he might have a nap. J took me to her bedroom which held a big white bed and pillowcases that spelled 'La Nuit' in a serif font.

We kissed and touched. J seemed tiny until I took off my shoes - in fact we are the same height. Her bum looked so good in the cream striped trousers, but even better naked. The night before N had said I had the best arse he'd ever seen but J's, I think, is better. Her neck, skin and hair all smelled so nice I was suddenly aware of my own sweat. 'Did N do that?' she asked of the deep scratches on my shoulder. I showed her the dark bruises on my thighs and the faint marks from his cock on my face. She told me to lie down and blindfolded me and tied my hands.

She dragged a soft, multistranded whip across me. 'Do you know what this is?' 'Yes.' 'Do you want it?' She saved the hardest lashes for my breasts and fucked me with a double-headed dildo. When I pressed my face in her crotch she untied me and took the mask off. I licked her through the knickers and then took them off - J was shaven down below.

It was easy to get her off with my fingers. After which I noticed N watching from the open door. Asked how long he'd been there. 'Since the mask went on,' he said. 'I could smell the two of you before I even got to the door.'


At this point J's boyfriend turned up and the diary gets a little vague. To make a long story short, he had a problem with N - namely, he didn't want N to touch J. Out of frustration N blurted that if that was so, J's man couldn't touch me either. Instead, N tried unsuccessfully to fist me. I was so distracted I couldn't come. J sucked her partner off, we all exchanged numbers, and N and I left. He dropped me at King's Cross.

'Well,' he shrugged just before the train doors closed. 'I guess four in a bed is too many.'

I masturbated on the ride north and rang N to let him know when I came. It was somewhere around Grantham, I believe.

End-of-year goodies at Pussy Ranch, including redesign and totally fabulous opinions as ever -

5. "Hey Ya" by Outkast : I know I'm not the only one who does the "booty clap" dance to the breakdown. Remember, Andre is your neighbor

It's good enough to merit buying a Polaroid camera, I'll admit. Here's my completely conceptually ripped off Top Ten for '03.

10. Love Kylie underwear. I believe this was covered earlier.
9. Birthday parties. They put a sizable dent into the panic at being one year older, there are lots of pressies and pulling is pretty much a given.
8. "Laura" by Scissor Sisters. Crazed Droogie love-child of Steven Tyler and David Blaine catalogues misadventures of baby-daddy. Tell Cincinnati.
7. Spearmint Rhino. Brunette Essex girls in lipgloss and scanties! Magnificent!
6. Chanel Le Vernis Beige. Brushes easily, chips never, lasts long. I'm in danger of spending more money on nail varnish and underwear than rent, actually.
5. Green and Black's Organic Hot Chocolate. Every girl's fifth food group.
4. After-Christmas sales before Christmas.
3. Chips and pickle. Purists will insist the quality of fresh chips will be diminshed by the trek home to slather them in Branston's Sandwich Almighty. I offer the counter-argument that southern chips aren't all that to begin with.
2. Cleaning women. Watch my self-motivation to perform housekeeping tasks fall to new lows.
1. Sex. Still number one after all these millennia! Hotly tipped for next year as well.

I will be heading to the frozen North today in an effort to beat the coming ice storm and nestle in the bosom of home for a bit. 'Tis the season, no?

I have a small backlog of posts to put up in the coming days. Aside from one or two interesting recent clients to catch up on, there are also a few retro-Belle adventures. So, tell me which you would most like to read
a) the night I became a dominatrix,
b) first time kissing a girl, or
c) 'four in a bed is too many.'

Answers via the usual route, please. I would do one of those clever box-tick vote things but my limited computing skills have failed me here.

So, just to clarify - I am Jewish (er, not religiously observant, obviously). I prefer uncut. Do we have a problem with this?

I mean, it was okay to be a working girl, but not so okay to like the goyim?

Just checking. Don't worry - I'm not ranting, only PMTing. Love you all, darlings. Especially the ones who care enough to email.

Cock Talk: answering the awkward questions that come up in email.

Q: Cut vs. uncut?
A: Uncut, of course. You have to ask?

Q: Is there such a thing as too small?
A: Possibly, but you'll probably have better luck talking a lady into embarking on A-levels if you're on the petite side. Vibrators are a sound investment.

Q: Is there such a thing as too big?
A: Only in certain positions. I had a long-term relationship with someone who was simultaneously porn-huge and the bend went the wrong way. Lube and patience, boys. Don't injure your woman.

Q: How long is too long?
A: Past the end of the appointment, in my case. When the juice runs out in anyone else's. Be sure to stop pounding for a second or two and check how your partner's getting on.

Q: Top porn woodsman?
A: Peter North, definitely.

Q: Top real-life woodsman?
A: Bendy guy for technique, the Boy for libidinousness and split-second recovery time. The rest of the Top 5 is excellent as well.

Q: Performance-enhancing drugs?
A: What is this, the Commonwealth Games? If you do, keep it subtle.

Q: Pumps?
A: Don't waste your money.

Q: Fave brand of french letter?
A: In the UK, Durex Extra Safe. In the US, Mentor. When pregnancy - not disease - is the main issue, Trojan NaturaLamb. For a while I tried the lamb/latex/lamb combination but had to give up eventually. I always keep polyurethane to hand in case the client has latex sensitivity.

Q: Most important cock lesson I learned?
A: There are two, actually. I live by Jenna Jameson's advice on giving oral sex - 'saliva and enthusiasm.' The other was finding out - especially with older men - as with women, it's not always about the orgasm.

(Phone rings) Me: "Hello?"

Manager (for it is she): "Darling, are you asleep?"

"Um, no?"

"Oh riiiight. You just sound so relaxed. I think to myself, I am so relaxed, but you are always much more relaxed than me. Do you read a lot?"

"Um, yes?"

"That would be why then. People who read are so relaxed. Anyway, I have a booking for you at 2am. I don't know what it is all of a sudden, but everyone has gone (my work name)-mad."

"Um, good?"

"Verrrrrry good, darling. I will text you the details. Enjoy your book."

As most transactions in my business are paid in cash I find myself at the bank rather often. I tend to use the same one at a similar time every day. Cashiers are naturally curious people who would have to be brain-dead not to wonder why I come in with rolls of bills several times a week and deposit into two accounts, one of which is not mine.

One day I presented the deposit details on the back of a slip the Boy had been sketching on. The cashier turned it over, looked at the drawing, and looked at me. "This is good. Did you do this?" she asked. "Yes, well, I'm a... cartoonist," I lied. Which is how the people at the bank came to believe that I draw for a living. Whether they took the next logical leap of questioning why any legitimate artist would demand payment in cash is unknown to me.

One advantage of this job is not being limited to the lunch hour for running errands. Therefore, I tend to go shopping in midafternoon. "Live close to here?" the grocer by the tube station asked one day, as I picked out apples and kiwifruit.

"Just around the corner," I said. "I work as a nanny." Which is blatantly unbelievable, as I never have children visibly in tow and, unless the Boy is staying over, am only buying for one. Still, he nodded, and now occasionally asks how the kids are doing.

I tend to bump into neighbours very seldom, except in the evening, at which time they see me dolled up in a dress or suit, full makeup and freshly-washed hair, going to meet a cab. "Going out?" they ask.

"Best friend's engagement party," I say. Or, "Meeting people from work for drinks." They nod and wish me well. I slip out the door and wonder what story I'm going to tell the taxi driver.

I had a job interview.

Don't get too excited - it wasn't a real one. I was instructed to meet a client at a hotel, and was emailed his specific requirements for my interview technique. He required a shy, almost virginal secretary who would be powerless under his persuasion. Needless to say A-levels (not the academic sort) were required.

We finished early and snapped out of character. I found a lime-scented cream in the bathroom and massaged his tense shoulders. "Do you find my fantasies odd?" he asked.

"Odd?"

"Do you think it demeans women?"

I chose my words carefully. "I think this is the appropriate outlet for it." We talked a bit longer. Interestingly, his background was very similar to mine - his mother from where my father is from, and vice-versa. The conversation strayed to places, attitudes, foodstuffs, sport. Homesickness hits quickly and hard, and I am suddenly looking forward to the holidays.

Sent by an astute reader, it made me laugh -

Word of the Day for Friday December 12, 2003

meretricious \mer-ih-TRISH-us\, adjective:
1. Of or pertaining to prostitutes; having to do with prostitutes.
2. Alluring by vulgar or flashy display; gaudily and deceitfully ornamental; tawdry; as, "meretricious dress."
3. Based on pretense or insincerity; as, "a meretricious argument."

Went to Bedford for a booking last night and caught a late train back. There was almost no one on the platform: a youngish professional wearing trainers and headphones, a few lone women. I wondered if they were going home from work, and if so, why this late? The trains were running behind and it seemed we were waiting ages.

A clutch of teenaged boys jumped on, drunk and racuous. One of them eyed me up whilst the others harassed the fat boy in the group. They took one of his shoes and played an increasingly violent game of keep-away which culminated in his loafer being chucked out the window at another train. He began screaming and tackled two of the other boys. They got off at Harpenden, unsurprisingly, and the carriage was mine alone as far as Kentish Town.

I felt inexplicably happy and walked home instead of taking a cab. Neither high heels nor drunken idiots frighten me much - when you spend a life in stilettos, pavements are no hardship, and I've shrugged off enough come-ons that I could write the book on losing losers. I sang aloud, a song about lovers who want each other dead. Several empty night buses rumbled down the road. A man on a bicycle passed me and said, 'Great legs!' He slowed down and glanced over his shoulder to gauge my reaction. I smiled and thanked him. He rode on.

It was cold and clear. I looked up, and was surprised at the number of stars.

Phone call from the Boy last night. It consisted of the usual moaning and gnashing of teeth, both in a sexual way and at our fate of being star-crossed lovers with the A23 betwixt us.

Toward the end of the conversation, things turned a bit more prosaic. "My dad's going to be in London a couple of nights this week."

"Why's that?"

"Retraining courses for work," the Boy said. "I know he's dreading it. He hates London. I mean, what is there to do when you're stuck in the city by yourself and don't know anyone?"

One thing came to mind immediately. Dear god, I hope he doesn't call an escort. "Oh, I'm sure he'll be fine. Your dad's a smashing chap, someone's bound to take him out on the town one night." Please, don't let him call an escort. And please, I know it's a lot to ask... please don't let it be me. "Maybe your mum could go as well?"

"No, she's busy this week."

Fuck. My logical mind knows it's statistically unlikely. Still, I have three hotel visits in the next two days and can't help wondering. If time has taught me anything it's that a) cheating is a common human condition and b) the stars always align against me.

N gave me a lift home. He had already eaten and I was beyond tired. I made a sandwich for myself and cups of tea for us both while he read to me from the paper.

Later I tried to kick him out of the flat so I could have a bath. It's been too long since I indulged in a long, bubbly soak. "I'll wait," he said. He's an odd one and stubborn as well, and I was too tired to argue, so I let him.

When I came out of the bath he rolled me over on the bed and kneaded my back from neck to ankles. I would have thanked him - I imagine the satisfied sighs got the message across. On his way out the door he paused. "Next time, of course, I want at least a blowjob for that," he said.

"That's only funny because I know you're not kidding, sweetheart."

The client leaned over me, pulling at his member furiously. 'I'm going to come on your face,' he said. It was the sixth time in ten minutes he'd said it, growling, as if trying to convince himself.

That was all. 'I'm going to come on your face.' No instructions for me, though I played with my breasts and nipples, sucked my own fingers after touching myself, hoping that would help. All that I had known before the appointment were the details of the meeting and a request to wear a lot of makeup.

My effort didn't seem to help. He was looking at the wall, not at me. A few times his frantic hand slowed, and he dipped down to my lips. He was going soft and I sucked him hard again. He never looked down, not once. Then the masturbation would start again. And the mantra. 'I'm going to come on your face.' I writhed on the sheets and groaned. No reaction. I bent my head forward and licked his inner thigh. Again, no reaction.

Half an hour later, he still had not finished. I murmured and probed, wandering fingers, gentle questions. But it seemed he wanted nothing from me, save to be the canvas he painted. It made me feel the way unturned clay must, wanting to form into something, some fantasy, but not being allowed. His shoulders slumped and he fell, sweaty, into my chest. 'I'm sorry honey, it ain't gonna happen,' he said, as if it had been my idea all along.

Last night I was walking down the fag end of Fulham High Street looking for a cab. There is a book store on the corner - not the horrible kind assaulting you with endless stacks of remaindered Michael Moore and lattechinos to go, but the wonderful quirky kind. The sort of shop where the proprietor - who can remember your tastes, previous purchases, and make appropriate recommendations even if you've not been in years - appears to live on site, and either owns a collection of identical outfits or never changes his clothes. The proprietor of such a shop is always a man, always.

Unfortunately the shop was closed. Or perhaps fortunately - I had a wad of notes on me, some time to kill, and a distinct inability to refuse fusty booksellers. But the shop was locked up and dark. Outside the door a plain white shelving unit held a few paperbacks. Whether these were donations to the public or from the public I didn't know. Being curious, I perused the titles. This is how I ran across the best thing I've ever read on a paperback cover.

"A girl can go anywhere if she believes in herself and has a mink coat."

Well, yes! Indeed! How true, and wonderful! How very Holly Golightly! Uncertain whether the books were for sale or not, but certain this novel was destined to be mine, I deliberated a moment before dropping a pound coin through the post slot.

(Now is a good time to point out that I do not actually have a mink coat. I have a fairly nice watch, and suppose it is the most politically correct luxury item one can get away with wearing. I wouldn't want to be accused of either animal torture or funding cartels in the developing world. The possible exploitation of Swiss craftsmen is not a daily burden on my soul.)

The book, in case you are wondering, is "B.F.'s Daughter" by John P. Marquand, he of the Mr. Moto novels. It is the most delicious trash. Think Mickey Spillane meets Francois Sagan in the lobby of Saks Fifth Avenue. In 1946. Shopping-and-fucking chicklit really has nothing on this.

Rubbish holiday occurrences:

Being asked to wear red, fur-trimmed lingerie, which serves to confirm that only men think this is a good idea. Further, that they must have had very strange childhoods indeed to find Father Christmas a turn-on. Perhaps it is a relief to know that this is a perversion that must be paid for.

People who use the word 'Crimbo.' That's just wrong.

The drone of fervent Christians begging us to remember what 'this season is really about.' It's about the blessed appearance of Our Lord Harvey Nichols, right?

Love, Actually. Enough, already.

Customers who ask me what I'll be doing for the holidays. Simply because I can't decide what would be a suitable answer - a glamourous lie (pulling Donovan Leitch's cracker) or the mundane reality (schlepping up north to light the menorah).

But the holidays are great because:

Whether by divine right or unspoken charter, the entire country decides to piss off work. As a result, no one really expects reliable communication.

The smell of mince pies. Complicated, passionate discussions involving mince pies. Shopping trips consisting largely of the need to purchase mince pies. Forgoing meals in favour of mince pies.

End-of-year anxiety equals a spike in workload for me. I feel like the Samaritans of sex.

Getting to see the people you know and love. Getting to see the people you know and love drunk.

This year, I actually want the terrible gifts from ancient aunties. Bring on the woolly socks and embroidered handkerchiefs, please!

The client undressed while I laid out the things he had requested: blindfold, the Persuaders, choke chain collar and nipple clamps.

"I've never done this before," he said.

Doubtful. Still, his fantasy, not mine. "I'll be gentle with you then," I said. I was lying, and we both knew it.

As promised, a side note about the investment banker. I met him at a hotel near Bond Street. We drank some coffee, chatted about New York briefly, then got down to business. And, as they say, business is good.

He: "That was my first anal."

Me: "Really? I'm surprised." Perhaps not that surprised, since there have been more than a few first-time anals in my past. But surprised he didn't mention it, and surprised at the spatial imagination of someone who manipualted me around his member so fluidly.

"Well, I enjoyed it."

"I would tell you it's my first time too but you'd know I was lying."

He (laughing): "So how did I do?"

"Excellent - just remember, lots of lube, and use fingers first. As you did."

"Thanks - you're too nice."

"Well, you did all the hard work. So to speak."

(later)

He: "I don't understand why my colleagues would have an affair with some girl in the office, and risk a marriage, when they could have someone like you."

Me: "I like to think my fee is as much for going out the door as coming in it."

"Too right. It must be a power thing, or to show off to other men. Still," and he shuddered slightly, in the manner of a man whose faint tan line from a removed wedding band is still visible, and knows it - "I just couldn't risk some little temp ringing my wife up weeks or months afterward."

We had time before both of our next meetings and talked about Lebanese restaurants in London (good, on the whole) and Italian ones (uniformly rubbish). Later he let slip that he had tried to book me before, when I was away. I'm glad his persistence paid off.

One of the odd side effects of this job is becoming more sensitive to someone's smell.

I don't usually shower straight after the appointments. There's one regular client who bathes me at his house with a sponge and almond soap, but usually I shower at home.

So I may be walking out to a cab, or going up the stairs of my flat, and catch a whiff. Not of sex, not specifically - just someone's scent. The smell of their skin or hair or hand cream that rubbed off on my skin and clothes.

Will I remember these if I smell them again? They say scent is the most powerfully memory-associated of all the senses. And that it is also the most neglected. It is so ephemeral. You become quickly tired of strong ones, but can't get enough of the tease, the slightest waft of an almost-remembered association.

Crossing the street today I smelled a cologne that must have been the same as the psychoanalyst used. I remember touching the smooth green bottle in his bathroom.

Today I put on a pair of shoes that inexplicably reminded me of a client from this week, an investment banker, of whom more some other time. Did I think at the time 'this man smells of leather/old trainers/sweaty socks'? No. But there was a deep note of similarity, and by lunchtime, I had to take them off because I couldn't stop thinking about work.

But these were both recent, and no test of long-term memory.

Sometimes a man will walk by who smells of my ex - before the Boy, before N, what seems like an epoch ago. He smelled of hot sand. I am always tempted to follow these people wherever they are going. To catch their elbows before they disappear into the crowd at a tube station, or scribble a note to slip into their pockets. I want to know what scent they use. To ask what right they have to smell like what, for me, will always be sex itself.

So what's girl to do with her day off?

Booked in advance, plenty of warning. No Boyfriend, no gym session with N, no cold, no customers. A good proper lie-in. No errands, no appointments and no laundry. Time to cook (and maybe leave the washing up for another day). No cleaning lady and no calls from the manager. Nowhere to be, nothing to be. Just me on my wee tod.

So the girl goes shopping for knickers, naturally.

N has a friend, A, who is another working girl. I see her around occasionally - we share some of the same haunts.

I was out and about one night and nipped to the ladies' to reapply lipstick. Unhappily, it was one of these ultramodern places with a trough-like sink where the water splashes everywhere and a too-narrow mirror lit obliquely from below reflects exactly the space between your collarbone and chin. Flattering (and useful) to exactly no one. Who designs these spaces, anyway? Ladies' toilets should have two grooming areas, in my humble opinion: a well-lit, mirror-covered one where it's bright enough to pluck your brows and obsess on your bulges from all angles. Then a candlelit one before the exit to reassure you that no one will notice anyway.

Having ascertained that the toilet was designed by someone who hated women, I turned round to see A crouched on the floor, sobbing. I almost didn't stop. She hadn't seen me yet. But something about the fragile bow of her heaving shoulders made it impossible to walk away. "Are you okay?" I whispered, kneeling beside her.

It all came out in fits and starts - first man trouble, then family problems, then a recent surgery gone wrong, then the reason for the surgery. It turned out A was the victim of a particularly notorious rape several years ago. It was the anniversary of the incident.

"That was you?" I whispered. She nodded. "I'm so, so sorry."

The incident was reported in some papers as an attack in which the victim escaped, but all the girls knew the truth. No one gets away from a man with a hammer. Especially not, in retrospect, someone as frail as A.

She showed me the cuts from the reconstructive surgery she'd been undergoing, just at her hairline. I hugged her gently. Let me emphasise that I am not, ironically, the most touchy-feely of girls. I told her about my last few years, losing family and futures, how sometimes you feel like a cork tossed around on an ocean. How being told to buck up and stiff-upper-lip it often makes things worse. Yes, the world really is an unfair place. Yes, these things are sent to try us. No, you don't have to smile all the time, every day. How it wasn't her fault.

I stayed in there almost an hour while people walked in, walked out, stepped over and around us. Then A stood up, straightened her clothes, ran a brush through her hair. And while I didn't expect this was the start of something beautiful between us, I thought perhaps there had been a connection made.

Not wound-mates curled up watching Friends and scarfing Milk Tray. But maybe a gentle, unspoken acknowledgment. A subtle nod across a room. A sorority of two.

So I saw her yesterday. Another club, another toilet. I said hello. And she utterly blanked me. I rang N later on to grumble about the snub. "Yeah," he said. "I would have a lot of time for her, but she can go from needy to brittle in about ten seconds, and you never know which one you're going to get."

Sometimes I don't wonder at my lack of female friends.

For all who are concerned about the Boy's employment, rest assured he is actually working at the moment, just not in a terribly stable, well-paying nor interesting position.

Anyway. It probably goes without saying that I am a fan of Mil Millington, dodgy hair dye and all. Therefore I offer this homage,

Things My Boyfriend and I Have Argued About

...whether it is acceptable to find any of his siblings attractive (apparently not, so that'll be a secret just between us, okay?).

...if there is time for phone sex before he goes to work (there is, but not if we spend an hour arguing about it).

...who is hotter, Jadzia Dax or Deanna Troi?

...Monarch of the Glen, enjoyable Sunday-night trash or Scottish cultural triumph?

...whether 29 is a good age for his parents to acknowledge that he has sex and let us sleep in the same bed when visiting. Or, indeed, hold hands in public. The subject of my employment has thankfully not come up yet - they are either so gullible or so in denial as to believe I am, miraculously, still a student. And that he is a virgin. Or perhaps the other way round.

...the Northern Ireland thingy. Vested interests on both sides here that result in throwing handfuls of champ at each other on St Patrick's Day and mutual incapability of conversing at under 4000 decibels.

...sexy pants vs. pantless. On him, of course.

...who rocks hardest - L7, Sleater-Kinney, Hole or Bikini Kill.

...proper placement of toothpaste tube sqeeze (I think everyone has had this one).

Clearly many issues at stake of much philosophical and sociological import. I hear Millington's book has been optioned by Working Title and await the film with bated breath. Mil, if the German chick ever leaves you, you are always welcome chez de Jour, so long as you don't look like any of the Boy's relatives.

It's World Aids Day, and I mean to celebrate by using as many (number as well as variety) of condoms as possible.

You should too. Why, even if you're in a monogamous relationship - just think of the fun of revisiting that awkward unwrapping moment all over again! And what better time to practice the art of tying off the open end after ejaculation?

Seriously, the media abound with tales of increased infection rates. Say it ain't so. If you play, play safe. And if you want something funny, wonderful, sad and sexy to read as a tribute, do go check this recent entry from Geek Slut.

Best Customer Ever alert!

There is someone in London who paid to lick the pucker of my arse for one hour. Isn't that what everyone really wants in life, someone who'll kiss your grits and enjoy it?