Intrigued by this titbit of news, a revelation infintely more satisfying than the horror of realising, a year or two back, that those who are not old enough to remember Lionel Richie the first time around consider him some sort of Grand Poo-bah of soft rock. Wrong, wrong, wrong! Which reminds me that my mother's birthday is looming and I really must remember to make her that Neil Sedaka Tzedakah box I'm always promising - or is it threatening? - to craft.

Am entertaining for the weekend and N is coming round to hoover the flat. He volunteered. Wonder if I leave the washing up, will he volunteer for that as well?

I don't run into the neighbours often, usually only on the way out the door. So they either think I lead an unutterably glamourous life of nonstop parties and premieres, or they know everything. Or they just think I like to dress up. Anyway, very little noise ever comes from those quarters. Until last night when I came home at 2am and was kept awake another hour by the distinct sound of books being thrown, one by one, against a wall.

Odd.

Knickers: flesh-coloured hipsters in a fabric my mother would describe as 'dotted swiss.' Very VPL - so only suitable for wearing under jeans.

Books: Saira Shah's The Storyteller's Daughter. I am amazed by the guts and humanity of this woman. She is humbling without being condescending and tells a cracking war story. It's fantastic.

Also, have noticed at the gym that my Achilles tendons seem stiff of late. Am told this is the result of habitual wearing of heels. I know that every season we are bombarded with the propaganda that flat shoes are cute and sexy too, but trying to talk me into low heels with a skirt is probably a conversion project along the lines of the settlement of the West Bank. Will simply have to stretch more.

N and I had breakfast at a greasy spoon (his: full fry-up and chips, hers: scrambled eggs on toast). He's not been sleeping well and it shows, but can't explain why. Maybe long hours at work, maybe family worries, maybe a belated sense that it should be spring but it is so cold and wet that the internal clock is still ticking over in winter time. Someone we know started a rumour last week that the clocks went forward before Mothering Sunday instead of this weekend, and it threw him off, and he's not had a night's rest since.

He's heard things, things about me. Rumours are flying. Nothing earth-shattering, just a comment or two from a person or two coming back round to him. Have I mentioned N appears to be the secret hub of all knowledge in London? You know a name - he knows someone who knows someone. Is something you heard true? He can get the goods. He's a dealer, and his drug is information.

There's envy involved, usually the engine behind the worst, most damaging rumours. The other WG, she wonders aloud and often how I could possibly afford the place I live. I'm not working so often and people notice. "Managing money better than she does," I shrug. "I don't have a car." Or a damaging relationship with my body, I add silently.

Other things. I hate this sturm und drang. Someone I slept with who asked to keep it secret - I didn't even write about it here - turned around and told, oh, about half of the city. A few personal things. That I don't mind. It's the asking for privacy, then blatantly stripping it off, that I care about. Poor etiquette in a lover. "Maybe I should say something to him about it."

"Not a good idea," N advised. He pointed out that this man is young and a bit feckless, and I was more likely to give him a pat on the head and a coo of forgiveness than the slap he so clearly deserves. "The onus is on him now. He's the one who's going to feel uncomfortable when he sees either of us."

"Maybe I should start rumours of my own."

"Keep your own counsel. Better in the long run."

"I feel my evil antennae twitching..." I said, waggling forefigers in the air.

"Don't."

"Ah, bollocks, that reminds me.."

"What?"

"On his way out the door, he asked me if it was true I'd had a threesome with you and someone else."

"What did you say?"

"Yes."

He cringed. "Well, I don't care, and you obviously don't, and I don't think the other girl does either. But I wonder why he was interested? If I were him, I would have asked me and not you."

"Yes. Or asked if I'd ever been in a threesome, in case angling me into one was a possibility."

"Exactly. I wonder why he was so interested in a piece of trivia about my private life as he's getting out of your bed?" N scratched at his stubble. "One too many one night stands," he said. "Be careful what you say about someone else's sex life," he advised.

I shrugged. I drank the very strong, very fresh coffee. He asked if I'd seen the car outside my house again. I have. He asked if I needed anything. I said I didn't.

"Get out if you can," he said.

"The business, the house or the ex-boyfriend?" I asked.

"All three," he said. "I don't know what you're planning, but whatever it is, have a spare rabbit hole."

He pushed a crust of toast around the plate. The cafe that had been crowded when we sat down was almost empty of people. I bought a piece of carrot cake for later. He tipped the waitress and drove me home. His left hand rested on my knee the whole journey.

"Just be careful," he said. I waved him off and went upstairs.

(Knickers today: transparent black with cream lace edging and a peephole in the back. These are currently topping the league table of favourites.)

A few things, FAQ-stylee.

1. There are other prostitution FAQs on the Web. They are authoritative in the sense that they record that person's experience, not mine. No one speaks for me but me. I speak for no one but me.

2. The manager - madam, if you will - does not take 'more than half' or anything like it. Her fee is 30%. Tips and travel expenses are exempt from her commission. The client usually pays an extra 30-50 pounds on top of the agreed price for travel. About a quarter of them tip.

3. I have only seen the manager in person a handful of times. I prefer to pay in to her account, and she knows I am reliable with it. Some other girls she meets at restaurants or at home.

4. Most other WGs I have met do not work for the same agency and are usually friends-of-friends. I only meet others from my agency if someone hires two of us at a go. We arrive and leave in seperate transportation, and know nothing of each other beyond professional names.

5. I have never had an overtly negative review reported either online or to the manager.

6. My clients are not 'usually drunk' and I have not yet run into an abusive one. We are instructed that if they are, to take the money, ring the manager, and leave. They are instructed by her that if we find them objectionable, we leave.

You might say I'm lying, or have been extremely lucky. You might also say that I have some skill in putting people at ease. Your call.

7. The manager was a WG herself, and is a rather nice person, and for these reasons I trust her. She also has great legs - not that this matters but thought it worth mentioning.

8. I get nervous about clients if they've changed the location or time of the liaison more than once. In these instances the agency provides security, or I ask N to drive and guard me. I tip the driver 50 quid out of my portion of the fee for this. I don't know what she pays them.

9. The manager confirms appointments with the clients by landline number. They have to have checked in to the hotel or be at home before the appointment is finalised. I text her on my arrival and ring her when I leave. If she hasn't heard from me within 15 minutes of the agreed end of the appointment, she rings the client, then the hotel, then her security, then the police. I know, because once I forgot to ring her.

10. If she 'plays favourites,' I have not noticed. Or perhaps I am the favourite.

11. Do I kiss clients? Of course. Pretty Woman is not real. Understood? Fiction. J***a R*****s is not really a prostitute.

Refusal to kiss is an affront similar to fake porn lesbians who won't put their tongues anywhere near a pussy, but are perfectly happy to shove a fist up one. Denial is not just a river in Egypt, honey. I don't hold back. Kissing is no more intimate than any other act - intimacy is what the mind does, not the body.

12. Today, my knickers are low-waisted flesh-coloured lace shorts (La Perla). No bra.

It's inspiring to have a large project to work on again - it feels like being a student, only self-driven, and fuelled more by green tea and apples than Pro Plus and fear. I've sandbagged myself in, making contact with the outside world only to see regular clients and buy more tea. The phone ringers are switched off, the laptop is out, and all systems are go! for the next couple of months. Or until I run out of steam - whichever comes first.

You can rest assured that updates on the writing process will not be in the book.

I thought some descriptive statistics might be in order - then realised if I was going to privde an accurate count of people I've had sex with, I should have been taking better notes. No worries. Perhaps a knicker drawer inventory is more in keeping with the tone thus far. Today's selection - black lace thong with pink ruffle edges and a pink bow on the left side. Kylie, I think.

Wasn't it Tallulah Bankhead who said only good girls keep diaries and bad girls haven't the time? I'm setting out to prove her wrong.

Woke up to a storm, both outside and in my email.

Think I'll stay indoors today. N came back from Belgium with a veritable metric tonne of porn to sift through, including the always-reliable Lady Anita F (Hotter Than Hell!!) title and another mag with a tasty Pussy Ranch-alike girl doing the waterstuff all over some poor boy who no doubt deserves it. Will let you know if anything interesting, er, goes down.

The hot and cold of it...

He stood, trousers off. I sat in a chair in front of him. My shirt (white, as requested) was half-unbuttoned. "I want to write my name in come all over you," he said.

I smirked. "You can't fool me, you nicked that line from London Fields."

He looked at me strangely. Oh no, I thought. Better watch my mouth. "Amis fan?" he said idly, pulling himself with one hand.

"He's not bad," I said, reaching in to the shirt to pull my breasts free of the bra.

"Time's Arrow was pretty tricksy though." A glistening drop of pre-come lolled the tip of his glans.

"Very high-concept. Good book for a long train journey." I pulled at my nipples to his appreciative nods.

It was hot and close in the room. The weather has not been so bad and I thought of asking him to turn the heating off. "I want to smell your sweat mixing with my spunk," he said, as if reading my thoughts.

Later, I met another client. A large hotel in Lancaster Gate. The room was small and highly decorated, which surely made it look even smaller. For the money they must be charging here, I thought it seemed a little cramped. End-of-hall room.

He was in shirtsleeves. Short sleeves under a blazer - I hate that, it jars like light socks with men's shoes. The window was open.

"Your nipples are hard already," he said appreciatively. The window was wide open.

I draped my arms over his shoulders. "Are you not a little cold in here?"

"I'm fine."

"There are goose pimples all over your arms." I smiled and walked to the ground-floor window to pull the drapes.

"Good for the metabolism."

"Bet I can think of something better," I said.

The people who have been 'outed' as me are not me, and to those for whom it attracted unwanted attention, I apologise. And to those for whom the attention is wanted, are you mad? Still, if you think the mantle of BdJ such an appealing guise, do let us know and I'll have a pair of powder-blue Ginas spirited over to you forthwith. Or you could confess my sins here.

To the critics 'working' in sex-related industries who feign righteous indignation. You red-lipsticked girl-powah assistants at nice, clean, hoovered sex shops? Who market for people whose only foray into sex is dilettantism on par with those who buy Muji so they can feel Japanese? I quote a cynical friend: The dolphin vibe is GREAT, and so holistically-centred. It even comes with dental dams that have chakra maps printed on them. All package, no substance - you don't even have wankbooths in the shop to empty. Begone.

This is rubbish and far too meta for my taste. I want to write about the usual things again. Let us return to the suck/fuck/sleep/gossip, shall we?

To clarify the entry of le 11 Mars, RP = Received Pronunciation.

The subject of my speech appears to be a hot topic. I tire of this, don't you? For those interested, I can elaborate using the Wikipedia entry. In the 'Speaking with...' section: yes (vowels), no (dipthong), yes (room). Yes (cart), yes (heresy), sometimes (hearsay), yes (here we are), yes (here it is), no (law and order). Yes (caught, cart and cot), yes (formerly/formally), no (iron/ion). Definitely no! (class), and yes (whales).

Result - a mere 67% RP.

Light housekeeping -

1. Yes, there is a book deal. To have something worthwhile for the publisher I may write a bit less here. Not a hiatus - rather an attempt to manage writing time between the important chores of depilation and maintaining the dimensions of my bottom.

1a. It is not, as has been reported, a 'six-figure deal.'

2. Why not visit the links in the sidebar? Superlative writers all.

2a. But if you are an icky slimy journo at a Sunday tab bothering people who have never met me for shreds
of information, take your filthy lucre and leave those nice ladies and gentlemen alone.

3. A reader noted that Chanel have discontinued my favourite shade of Le Vernis, but a reasonable facsimile was available - called of all things, Belle de Jour. I can not remember where it is sold! If that kindhearted soul could remind me of the details, I would be in your debt.

4. I am not Toby Young.

5. Saw Suzie Gold in the cinema in Finchley. There were some cringe-worthy moments. Perhaps more relevant to those raised in London? Pleased my mother has only brought up the spectre of marriage once (as in, 'Honey! You're a [our surname]! He's a [his surname]! They belong together!'). I gave her the evils. We never mentioned it again.

6. Re: yesterday's blog, the Times, et al. A sad world it is if the use of vocabulary, grammar and syntax must be restricted to RP, especially given the pervasiveness of global mass media. English is a most malleable language. I reserve the right to use interesting phrases that come my way regardless of their nation of origin.

7. I don't fancy Alan Davies any longer and am open to suggestions. Sebastian Horsley, perhaps? Hari Kunzru?

He: "It's my first time."

Me: "First time with an escort?"

"First time, full stop."

(much fumbling ensues)

He: "Do tell me what to do. That's why I wanted it to be a call girl. Girlfriends never say anything useful."

(after)

He: "Honestly, how was that?"

Me: "Enjoyable. You have nice hands. Musician?"

(he nods) "What do you think of me in general?"

"Nice. Clever. Fit. You're a fine catch for someone."

"If you had met me somewhere else, would you fancy me?"

"How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

"Not if I knew your age." (he frowns) "I mean, you look older than that. But I didn't sleep with nineteen-year-olds even when I was nineteen." (that doesn't seem to have helped; he's looking even more depressed) "I'd fancy you. I would. You're a dangeous sort."

"How so?"

Must be careful here. Say something truthful, but nice, and not obviously flattery. "It's tempting when you meet a child built to adult spec. I wouldn't want to be the first person to break your heart." (he frowns again) "Don't fret, I'm sure there are plenty of women in the world who would."

It's official - everyone's an editor now. I shall go through the archives and change all sentences to suit the suggestions that come my way.

Um, or not.

I saw cherry blossoms this morning, it must be spring. They have probably been out for weeks but the tree near my door has suddenly and amply sprung into blossom. And the days, they're growing longer too.

Today the builders left. The ginger one stood awkwardly in the kitchen as the landlady passed her eye over the white walls and clean pine cupboards. She didn't seem half as pleased as I was with the result, but didn't say anything, just signed off an invoice and left.

The other one, the tall one, nodded toward the table where he'd left the spare keys. "Thank you. I've become very used to you, you know," I said as he reached the door.

"No, thank you," he said (in a South London accent I wouldn't dare replicate in speech, much less writing - suffice to say they found my way of saying 'room,' 'house' and 'year' as amusing as I found theirs). "You're quite a lady, you are."

I laughed fit to burst. Lady, indeed.

Good morning.

Am still recovering from a fancy dress party and getting jiggy to the worst music of the last two decades while a rabbi threw himself on the floor and pretended to be swimming and a man dressed as a tree dirty-danced over him. Because we were literally commanded to get pissed and make noise.

Makes Carnival look rather timid in comparison, no?

Spent most of yesterday hung over and reading multiple copies of the Big Issue, one bought from every vendor I saw on Friday, and nibbling the pastries a neighbour brought by first thing Sunday.

May have to go back to bed now.

I haven't made much effort to distinguish the four As from each other, there's too much backstory. You should probably know there's only one of them I haven't slept with. When we first met, there was immediate, overpowering chemistry. We snogged a bit but didn't go any further.

He lived in a neighbouring city, and when he went home, I was lonely. You know the feeling where all the pent-up energy goes straight to your legs, and you just want to run and run until you jump off a cliff? I confided in A2, and told him what happened. I'd fallen hard and had to see the man.

We devised a plan: I would turn up at A3's door at the weekend as a surprise and see what happened. Meanwhile I had four days to plan and fret. So I did what any girl would do.

I slept with A2. Confused yet?

No? How about this, then - I was dating one of the other As at the time. We were on the outs, but still officially an item. Jumping ship was high on the agenda, and this looked like a good opportunity.

So, my boyfriend A1 is out of town on a conference, I'm sleeping with our mutual friend A2 and planning to throw myself at the feet of A3. When the weekend comes, I turn up at A3's door.

He had a girlfriend. She answered the door. Her interested smile said she had no idea what was going on, and I felt exactly as low as I was acting. I made like Paula Radcliffe on speed.

A1 and I split soon after; A2 and I made a brief go of things and it didn't work out. But it's water under the bridge now: they're all friends with each other. Most people who meet us reckon A1 is my husband, A2 my brother and A4 our uncle - not because he looks old, we assure him, he just oozes manly authority. But there is the slight lingering problem of A3. After all these years, he's still seeing that girl. And sometimes he gets a bit pissed and overly friendly.

Too little, darling. Years too late.

We were at a restaurant a few nights ago. A2 (of the latex love) introduced me to a colleague of his. As if he had to point him out at all? I noticed the man as soon as he came in the door.

"Nice," I whispered to A2.

"I thought he was just your type," he smiled.

He was. Neatly dressed, fit body, hands I could imagine all over me. Smart, polite, gorgeous mouth. "So where's he from?"

"South coast, originally."

"Mmm. Where've you been hiding this one?"

"He lives in San Diego."

"Ugh. Why?"

A2 shrugged. "Job."

I frowned. Outside of work, I am not interested in one-night stands. A 7000-mile long distance affair is out of the question unless handsomely remunerated for travel expenses. I've crossed the ocean for a heart of gold before, only to find it not worth the effort. But in the interest of social lubrication I flirted with him and the other boys over the meal. Afterward A2 was feeling tired and went home, leaving Dr California in the capable hands of me, A1 and A3.

We went on to a pub. A3 was obviously drunk. "I like your pigtail," he said, stroking the bell-pull of my hair. His fingers curled around the end and tugged. The skin on the back of my neck tingled. Don't get me wrong, I still fancy the pants off this man, but can't be doing with painful love polygons any more.

"Thank you," I said, turning my head so it slipped out of his grasp.

Dr California racked up a set of billiard balls. We four toured the table for a couple of hours, me on a team with Official Ex A1, he with Unofficial Crush A3. A couple of people I hadn't seen in years walked by, we exchanged updates and laughs. My eyes followed Dr C's lithe form around the room - eyeing the table, setting up a shot, the confident swing of the arm below the elbow on the follow-through. Competence so turns me on.

A few times, passing off the cue, I slid my hand over his lower back. Hard as.

A3 glowered at me, growing more drunk and moody. Finally he mumbled something about the last train home. On his way out the door, he put his arms roughly around my waist. I kissed the end of his nose.

"Good night," I chirped.

He squeezed harder, drawing me up on my tip toes, and planted a kiss full on my lips in front of everyone. He hadn't been that forward in years. I pushed my face past his mouth into the side of his neck. He breathed hot against my ear. "You be careful. Wouldn't want to damage that new lad," he said, and left.

We put the cues away. The three of us finished our drinks. A1 gathered coats and went to the door.

I put a hand on Dr C's arm, holding him back until A1 had gone outside. I turned toward him, his sunny bright open face. "May I kiss you?"

"Please," he said. We snogged in the open doorway, blocking the exit. "Where are you staying?" he asked. A2's sofa, I told him.

"I have a huge bed at the hotel," he said.

"Perfect."

A1 was waiting outside and waved us off at the corner. About a block from the hotel, Dr C turned to me. "You don't remember me, do you?"

"No?"

"We met three years ago. I thought you were sexy then, too."

"I'm sorry, I don't remember."

He smiled. We went through the hotel's dim brown lobby and up to the second floor. I nodded at an acquaintance on the way. Sometimes it occurs to me how small a place home is. By morning all my friends and family will know of this.

The door was barely closed when we started grabbing at each other's clothes. Dr C was as fit in the altogether as he'd been dressed, and his hands as good as I'd imagined. I took his penis in my mouth. "Ahh, that's fantastic," he murmured. "American girls don't know what to do with a foreskin."

He felt right to me, he tasted and smelt amazing. The sex was good but not like at work. It was joyous, reveling in his body, feeling good for sharing mine. I couldn't stop touching him, nibbling him, wanting him. He felt like someone I'd been with forever. And he took me again and again with amazing intensity. Each time he came the muscular spasms ripped straight through me like a sound wave, setting off my own alarms, starting an orgasm from the inside out.

We slept a couple of hours, woke up, shagged again. Listened to the morning news on the radio. The usual stories - bombs, death, foreign elections. There wasn't much conversation. I didn't know what to say. Thank you, that was luscious, you know we're not going to see each other again, don't you? I was going to London in a couple of hours; he'd be flying back to San Diego later in the day. And yet it was a comfortable silence, the kind I could imagine stretching indefinitely into couplehood.

I brushed my teeth. When I came out of the toilet he was dressed. He watched me put on my coat, I had to meet a train. "Do you need a taxi?" he asked.

How many times have I heard that question? "No thank you, I'll walk."

"It isn’t far?"

"It isn’t."

He stood up, came over. Put his hands on my hips and kissed me tenderly. I'm reading too much into it, aren’t I? It was a kiss that promised more if I wanted it. An open-ended question that already knew the answer. "Safe trip," he said.

"Good bye," I said, and left. California is thousands of miles away. I smiled. The morning was warmer and brighter than I had reason to expect it to be.

I'm still up North, sleeping on one a couch of one of the As, looking for a good massage therapist locally and drinking too many tequila-based concoctions. There is this cat, whenever she sees me she makes for my lap and rattles her purrbox like a rusty motor. Extremely cozy and warm-fluffy at the mo, and vaguely toying with the notion of never going back to London.

Kidding! I'll be home in a day or two.