Chaps and chapesses, I apologise in advance.

I'm going off the radar for a wee while - many interesting things are afoot at Belle Towers, not least of which some Very Big News with an April dateline. You may rest assured that I'm well, well looked after, enjoying the upheaval, and generally amazed at outrageous fortune. But no, I can't say what it is just yet. And no, don't be daft, I'm not getting married.

And yes, I love you all. Back soon...

Went out with H and other friends for a curry. A2 texted to say he was in town celebrating his birthday a bit early, would I be coming out for drinks? Last time I checked A2 was a Cancer, but I'm terrible at remembering dates anyway, so who knows. I texted back that as it was ten already, and we'd yet to be served the main courses, I'd meet him later at a club.

'So,' I hissed, sidling up to H when the opportunity presented itself. 'You've been very naughty, giving out my number without permission.'

'Who, me?' he asked. I smiled. The Monkey-Hanger, it turns out, is a friend of H's. 'I'm sorry, I thought you two were...'

'No, no, I like him, it's fine,' I said. 'I saw him twice this week. He's nice.'

H checked his phone. 'Looks like he's going to be out again tonight.' He showed me a text - MH asking if H was going to very same club where I was meeting A2 later.

'Are you going?' I asked H.

'No, I have to work early tomorrow. You should, though,' he said. And so once we finally finished the meal, I waved goodbye to H and that crowd and blagged a random lift into town.

Once at the club I quickly spotted A2 and the rest of my group. It was a little crowded inside for my taste, and a little young, but the DJ was spinning northern soul and that is one thing - apart from killer heels, of course - that I simply can not resist. I looked round and there was MH, too, in the corner.

Walking over, I noticed him gently push a lock of hair off a girl's neck. Who on earth? But it was too late, I was already standing in front of them. MH smiled. 'Hi,' I said.

'Hey.'

'Umm. Well, nice seeing you,' I said, turned quickly, and went back to my group.

So he was out with another girl! She was lovely, too, all spidery limbs and curly black hair and probably a lot closer to his age than I am. I looked back to where they were dancing, alone together, in the corner.

I hate this part of crushing on someone. Not that it had been a mistake to sleep with him, but it was a little surprising he was on to someone else so soon after coming across as such a nice boy. Or perhaps this was his girlfriend, and I had just been - arrgh, not worth thinking about.

Just then two large hands grabbed me around the waist, and I was lifted in the air by a complete stranger.

A complete stranger with the body of a swimming star and the smile of an angel. He put me down gently, wrapped one arm around me, and we moved through the thronging crowd like ballroom dancers, he craning his head to murmur in my ear. I asked what his story was. He had just passed his accountancy exams, he said, and coached American football at the weekends. Wide receiver when he played. 'Oh,' I said. 'Not tight end?' We laughed. We tangoed to Billy Paul. He touched the inside of my arm, which as anyone who knows me knows, drives me wild. We danced together like that until the club closed and for those few hours I ignored my friends and even forgot about MH. When the lights came up A2 and the rest of my group were long gone, and so were the stranger's friends. Laughing, we ran downstairs to collect our coats - where we collided with MH and the dark-haired lass on the stairs. The four of us all stood there awkwardly looking at each other.

'So, did you have a nice night?' MH finally said.

'Yeah, um. Did you?'

'It was cool,' he said. 'I'll ring you, okay?'

'What was that about?' the stranger said when we got outside.

'Nothing... I've been sort of seeing that fellow. Not really seeing, but you know, early days and all. As you can see he was here with someone else. I'm a little fucked off about it.'

'Ah. So no chance I could...' he cradled my head with his hand and smiled. It was a gorgeous smile, a tempting smile, but to paraphrase Cole Porter, it was the wrong smile.

'No, sorry. But here's my number,' I said, tapping the digits into his phone. 'Give me a missed call and I'll ring you back. I'd like to see you again.'

'I'd love to see you. You're a fantastic dancer.' He hailed a cab and opened the door for me. As the taxi drove away I looked back to see him still standing in the street watching it go.

It was late when I turned the key in the door, almost five. I had a missed call from the dancing stranger. And another call and a text from MH.

Probably shouldn't say this, but she and I are just friends. Am walking home alone now.

Oh what have I done? It's a wonder I can dance with two feet in my mouth, really.

The Whore on Christmas.

Go read this. Matisse wrote it, and it's gooooood.

What do people mean when they speak disparagingly of "a whore"? Someone who sells her or his body? I have news for you: Unless you're a ghost who still draws a paycheck, you use your body to make a living, too. Ever been nice to a customer you really didn't like, or acted enthusiastic about something you really didn't care about, just because you were getting paid? Congratulations, you're a whore, too. You're just not getting paid as much as I am.

You may be under the impression that I'm one hard bitch, all lengthening mascara and diamond tips, impervious to the slings and arrows of outrageous lovers. But as of this morning, I'm all gooey over a boy five years my junior who also loves Wes Anderson films and agrees Stripes is the finest comedic moment of the last thirty years.

Perhaps the real test will be how he feels about Cormac McCarthy, but I'm not sure it will matter, because I am officially interested in the Monkey-Hanger.

Sigh.

Went to a Christmas house party, where the hosts had laid on a proper spread of roast turkey and the trimmings. Being the good Jewish girl I am, my contribution to the meal was a bottle of Bombay Sapphire, three litres of tonic, and a bag of lemons.

By 5am things were winding down. The Canadian girls with the ukulele were setting up a tent in the kitchen, the hot French women who spent the evening playing MC Solaar had gone home, and I was sitting on a fit chap's bed reading love letters sent him by a woman with the flowery handwriting and emotional intensity of a 15-year-old.

'No one's sent me letters like this since school,' I said. 'No, fuck that, since ever. Do you write back to her?'

'Yeah.'

'Are your letters to her like this?' I flipped over one card to find an A4 sheet of her poetry attached.

'Yes, but I'm not as good a writer.'

'I can't believe it.' Mostly because he'd spent most of the evening singing self-penned songs about taking a woman's backdoor virginity and telling us filthy stories about his most recent ex, a stripper.

'You think I'm an arrogant prick, don't you?'

'I think you're an arrogant prick, but you're the funniest arrogant prick I know.'

'Is it bedtime yet?'

'I think so.' I switched off the light and we snuggled down under the duvet, he in boxer shorts, me fully clothed.

'God, I had to spend all night tring not to say anything rude about Jews in front of that girl with the ukulele.'

'I'm Jewish,' I said.

'No way. For reals?'

'Yeah.'

'Get out of my bed, filthy woman. You killed fucking Jesus.'

'This from the man who made a stripper cry? Whatever.'

'Seriously. You people always try to deny it by saying the Romans did it, but you don't fool me.'

'As it's Christmas, and we're in bed, and I'm very drunk, I'll let you in on the truth. We're just saying that to appease you. We know we killed Jesus, and we have a secret holiday every year to celebrate. We call it Passover.'

'Cool. Good night.'

'Good night.' And we fell asleep. And the arrogant prick didn't touch me, he didn't even try.

So random snog boy is actually a very nice chap, and surprisingly posh for a monkey-hanger. Not certain how I feel about this: I had him pegged as a bit of nice-and-rough the first time we met (as much as you can get to know someone in a crowded club, with deafening music, snogging as if your life depended on surgically attaching your face to another's, in other words, not much) and am slightly tired of dealing with public school boys. While it does mean I can slip into a comfortable patter with him, am I simply attracted to someone who increasingly resembles my ex, in spirit if not body?

At least he's a great kisser. Between unexpectedly early menstruation and a condom-related mishap it was a bit of a farce in the bedroom department, but with any luck, we'll work on that.

And he likes the cat.

Weekly inventory:

1 gig with A3 - because that went so well the last time. Ended up sleeping in his spare room.

1 trip next morning to London to be wined and dined by the television industry. Actually mostly answered questions about deflowering teenaged boys while eating packaged sandwiches in a basement room. (I mean, ate sandwiches in the basement while talking. Not while deflowering. Oh, you know what I mean.)

5 minutes standing in Milroy's of Soho before realising the portly chap in the back did not care whether I was buying anything or not. So I didn't buy anything.

10 minutes standing in Harmony before realising I own that particular stainless steel buttplug already, the one that is a sort of a large bullet on a stick - kind of looks like a toilet plunger. So I didn't buy anything.

1 impromptu lunch on Old Compton Street because the cafe name was identical to my working name as a call girl. Yes, now that you ask, I was called Wok N Roll.

4 batches of truffles delivered to friends and associates - made using this recipe. Link updated now so it points to the recipe! But visit her blog, too, she's cool and knows how to make momos.

1 discussion of how awesome truffles are with C (who makes super-batches and freezes them!)

1 awkward moment when going the GP to talk about girly things only to find the new partner at the practice is someone I know from uni. Yes, I am still registered with my GP in London.

1 minute being a slobbering fangirl all over Immodesty Blaize. May have frightened her, in fact.

6 books nicked from my agent's office - R, expect a package. But not too soon; I'm lazy. Also want to read some of them first.

1 random snog from a boy (25) at a club back Oop North. Witness the power of gold hot pants!

2 meals with people from work - Turkish (fab) and Mongolian barbecue (yuck, never again).

1 phone message from aforementioned random snog boy, who was surprisingly resourceful at getting my number, seeing as I never gave it him.

1 very empty refrigerator with 2 out of date bottles of milk, half a jar of caviar that is definitely not mine, and four bottles of white wine that turned up myseriously at the back door last night. All hail the wine pixies.

1 extreme drool moment when I glimpse the upcoming 20th anniversary edition of The Princess Bride on DVD, where the title is spelled out as an ambigram. ǝzıɐlq ʎʇsǝpoɯɯı uɐɥʇ ɹǝʇʇʍɐɥ uǝʌǝ

1 plan to meet random snog boy tonight. I've not gone in for an emergency wax but did change the bed sheets. Does this count as mixed signals?

Apparently I'm 'conventional'. Also 'Victorian'.

I wouldn't have watched the Channel 4 shite about sexblogs - only everyone and their dog phoned to ask if I was watching. And lo, I learned many things: that blogs, and indeed sex, never existed before 2004; that the internet was expressly created for the purpose of journalling; that while I am a 'sex blogger' I am not a 'woman blogger' (can only assume this is because whores are not women); also that it's amazing what can be achieved onscreen given the right lighting and camera angles.

But by far the most important thing I learned is that I am not a feminist, because I charge for what other people do for free.

Well, fuck you. Fuck you, who think feminism began with Germaine Greer and ended with Candace Bushnell. Fuck you, who think kissing a girl while tiddly is real transgression. Fuck you, who ridicule India Knight for dieting then go on television offering up your tits on a plate. Fuck you, for not looking in the mirror when you wonder why there is no solidarity among women. Fuck you, heteronormative journocunts judging who is a proper feminist and who is not while contentedly popping sprogs here, there and everywhere in north London. Fuck you, and your little dog too. You damn right I'm no feminist, cos all feminists give a monkey's for these days is how to claim breast pumps as tax exempt and where to find the best au pairs.

Fuck you, you don't know what unconventional is, and you can't begin to imagine.

Fuck you, and take your Erica Jong - I'll have Claude Cahun, ta very much.

Fuck you, I always liked Erica Wagner better anyway.

Fuck you, Zoe Williams.

Drawbacks of the Mainstream Workplace #2:

When working as a call girl, I prided myself on a cerain ability - shall we call it talent? - for being able to suss out what a client wanted even with minimal hints. From the way some fo the men reacted, you would have thought it was white magic. They were terribly impressed.

They needn't have been. It was sex, they were men, it's not hard to make someone hard.

Alas, it is only recently that I have started learning this impression of men as bears of very little complication is not entirely accurate. Unfortunately, this also coincides with an occupation in which my boss expects me to read his mind.

Like, when he sent me a month's worth of work. Today. And it needed doing two weeks ago. By someone whose qualifications are entirely different to my own. So, what does he expect me to do? Build a Tardis, go back in time, and do the work then?

Left wanting for answers, I did what my career in the sex trade trained me oh so well for: I went to his office, mildly verbally abused him, and he quickly agreed to do it himself.

There was a missed call from SD4 (aka toe-flosser) so I phoned back.

'Hello,' he said. 'Thanks for ringing. I was just trying to make the truffle recipe you gave me... I was wondering, where you wrote about adding grated orange peel, is that like orange zest?'

I thought he'd said he was a good cook? Even I know how to grate and/or zest and orange. 'Yes, more or less. The outside. Really small.'

'Thanks! So how are you?'

'Um, really busy right now.'

'Oh. Okay. Bye.'

...four hours later...

'Hi, sorry, so I'm in the shop buying ingredients.'

'Okay.' Just to bring everyone up to speed, apart from optional additions like orange zest or brandy, this recipe has, like, three ingredients total. It's not rocket science, in fact, it's almost exactly orthogonal to rocket science. I managed to make what is already a basic recipe still easier this year by melting the truffle mix in the microwave. Children could make this. Monkeys could make this. Hell, even I can make this. Incidentally, this does not detract from the fact that the truffles are impressive. And delicious.

'Should I get salted or unsalted butter?'

'I don't know. I don't think it matters.'

'I'll get salted then.'

'Great. Good luck with that. Listen, I have to go. Bye.'

...the next morning...

A missed text from Toe Flosser:

Can you ring me when you wake up? I have a question about the truffles.

He'd sent the message at half five. I waited until lunchtime. 'How's it going?'

'Hi B, thanks for ringing back!' He sounded jaunty. Really, really chipper. The sort of manic brightness that means the caller is watching you from behind a pillar box whilst stroking a voodoo doll. 'I had a question about the recipe...'

'Yes, you said. What is it?'

'You know where you wrote a note about seventy percent or higher cocoa being better, does that mean you add seventy percent of the weight of the chocolate in extra cocoa powder?'

What planet was this guy from? 'No, it means buy a chocolate that already contains a high percentage of cocoa solids. They say on the label. In really big numbers.'

'Right. I'll go back and have a look today. So if I just bought cocoa powder, I can't use that?'

I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. Sitting about ten feet from my desk at work is P, who always eats lunch at his desk, and is always eavesdropping on my bidness. 'I'm happy to help you with this, but I'm not really comfortable with you calling me so often.'

Toe Flosser was silent. -- Now, let's freeze the moment and drop out Matrix-stylee for a quick analysis.

Toe Flosser is an active yoga practitioner. If there's one thing I've learned about men who practice yoga, it's that they come in two types: Passive-Aggressive Hippie or Barely Suppressed Rage. On the surface, these appear much the same until you do something they don't like. At which point Passive-Aggressive Hippie will withdraw,
telling you 'that's your trip, man,' preferably while doing something to fuck up your life on the way out, like leaving your house keys at a homeless shelter. Barely Suppressed Rage, on the other hand, will snap à la the Titanic just before it sank, but is usually rendered incapable of doing any actual harm as a result. Let us drop back in and see which one Toe Flosser is --

'Okay, like, you know, I just thought I was being FRIENDLY,' he said at such volume I'm certain my work mate P could hear. Surprise surprise, he's a Barely Suppressed Rage.

'There's friendly, and there's friendly,' I said, in as low and calm a voice as I could manage. 'If you had a genuine question about what is really a very simple recipe, I'm sure you wouldn't have to ring me all the time to ask it.'

'Maybe you don't have many MALE FRIENDS,' Toe Flosser shouted down the phone. 'Maybe you don't know what FRIENDS ARE.'

'Actually I have a lot of male friends. And you know what they all have in common with each other, but not you? They don't freak me the fuck out.'

I could hear him stomping around wherever he was, and quickly looked outside - to confirm that we was not, in fact, standing under my office window. 'FINE,' he snorted. 'WHATEVER. SO I'LL NEVER RING YOU AGAIN.'

Result! 'Thanks, hope so. Bye!"

I laughed so hard I almost cried.

Also.

'Hold on. You're saying there are two different kinds of wet?'

'It's like a mouth. You know, it's moist all the time, but when you see something you like, you salivate.'

'I can't believe it. So we can't trust you already because you never say what you mean, but now I learn when you're wet you're not even necessarily wet?'

'What I can't believe is you've managed to have a child without knowing the difference.'