Fortunately my journey was unaffected, but having spoken to others I certainly appear to have been lucky, although I arrived in Ireland’s second city distinctly green thanks to the less than desirable flight-in-small-plane-in-a-hurricane phenomenon, and the discovery that my entire working wardrobe was thoroughly dampened with Tesco Fiery Ginger Beer after I had chucked the can I hadn’t drank in my case before boarding the flight rather than bin it on arrival at Manchester Airport – I know, muppet – was less than helpful (and see pic). I will be keeping a close eye on things prior to my afternoon flight back from my current stomping ground of Belfast tomorrow, although all appears to be calm. No need to be thinking of that just yet, mind…

Cork, admittedly, passed by in something of a blur and any intention I had of going exploring was soon put paid to, mostly by the singularly enthusiastic and charming (if occasionally unintelligible) locals, and also by the completely knackered broadband in my hotel, this necessitating virtually every spare moment to be spent in a nearby McDonalds availing myself of their hotspot. The coffee’s actually not bad (and shamefully, nor were the Big Macs). I do recommend a visit purely because the place is rather lovely and the punters likewise, and even despite the hiccups I will certainly be going back.

After three nights of not much fresh air, virtually no sleep, a LOT of silly phone calls and a last minute hunt for Barry’s tea and Tanora fizzy pop (a tangerine lemonade which is possibly the Cork equivalent of Irn Bru) to take home before the train went (the Tanora didn’t last that long), I arrived in Dublin on Friday evening to the blessed relief of luxury digs complete with giant room, cloud-like bed (and Bed: Singular it was, rather than two beds of minutely differing heights clipped together and covered with a fitted sheet) complete with proper down accoutrements and marble bathroom with a proper bath which was as far as I got before coma set in, although not before a quick welcome dalliance with a charming young man who (amongst other things) reassured me that nobody else could understand people from West Cork either. And after a long weekend of shenanigans in the capital (including a delightful early doors send off on Monday morning following which I will not be short of Kindle-reading matter for a very long time!) I crossed the border around lunchtime and alighted in Belfast shortly before 2pm to yet another very well appointed temporary residence. But more of that shortly.

I will be back in Scarborough on Friday, and whilst I don’t expect to be available much before Monday (bar for those sensible folk who have already got their appointments all arranged in good time over the weekend), the phone will be on and any enquiries are welcome; my February London visit is fast approaching and the Friday is already almost fully spoken for. More tales of the Emerald Isle next time, but suffice to say it’s been a good one and I will be back!

Time for bed, said Zebedee. I shouldn’t say it, but I’m ab-so-lute-ly bloody knackered…More soon. Promise.

As delightfully fabulous as the bona fide luxury health spa experience always is (and I have described it enough times already), an unarguable part of the fun (for me at least) is anticipating the return to the Real World where fish and chip shops abound, and my haste in getting to the railway station shop to obtain Maltesers, Frazzles and a Fruit Shoot before catching my train home was more than enough to restore the balance between my serenely fuzzy spa-induced benevolence, and my more usual slightly panicky and nearly-outraged-about-nothing-in-particular public travelling persona. And not a moment too soon; unbeknown to me, horseracing had been taking place at York and upon alighting to change trains I sought immediate reassurance that the riots had not restarted over on Parliament Street, since the entire contents of a provincial branch of New Look appeared to be on defiant and slightly pissed show along the concourse.

One hour later I was finally home – to happy fishes, not too much laundry and yes, a phone full of ‘ru free tonite bb‘ style text messages from the previous few days; I have recently learned that ‘bb’ in this context (and I use the term loosely) apparently no longer means what we industry folk would ordinarily assume it does and is instead an abbreviation of the forgetful punter’s favourite, ‘babe’ (ie. I would like to stick my penis in something, but don’t really care who/what) as obviously this is one word that really needs whittling down a bit. All expertly dealt with by my new assistant Ms SMS Blocker (since she was not formally introduced the other week) whilst I watched Three In A Bed and ate my battered haddock with my free hand (again; sorry to disappoint, AW readers).

I marked the remainder of the holiday week with a nice trip to the beach for the first time in an age, and have enjoyed proper fried donuts with granulated sugar and sand (£2 for four now! At least Dick Turpin wore a mask etc, etc) a spot of sandcastle building with the smaller folk and a lovely paddle amidst the donkeys, seagulls and pink-skinned holidaymakers, many of whom had not anticipated the scorching sun any more than I had and unfortunately left their sunblock in Leeds. Fortunately I escaped any severe ill-effects by staying well covered up at all times (whilst out in public at least) but even then, a distinctly stingy warmth about the neck was evident an hour or two on, and I suspected my usual body scrub routine at bathtime would have been ill-advised (an executive decision was made to skip it). Photo of the cliff lift included for the gentleman who was asking about it too – if anybody actually did see the Scarborough episode of TOWN the other week, please forgive me for feeling rather fluffy about our beautiful town, and not a little smug.

Anyway, back to the grind (of sorts) this week and I am available during the posted hours here – since the school holidays tend to be a quieter time for ladies everywhere after disregarding the aforementioned ‘bb’ optimists, I will be endeavouring to continue my life’s work in attempting yet more home improvements over the coming week; same day appointments will not be available at all, unless you have a Ronseal habit or a bit of a thing about Kingspan board and want to help! As most will have seen, I will be setting off excitedly for the Isle of Man next week and am looking forward to my first visit – I will confess to being somewhat behind on emails since I got back, but am certainly on the home straight now and apologies to those still awaiting a response. Anyone wanting to book for Cardiff would do well to do so in the next few days as availability is going faster than anticipated, and I’m not around for long…

Update before the weekend! Normal service is (gradually) being resumed…

I have been very pleasantly surprised by the number of eager visitors here this time, bearing in mind the seemingly limitless number of Can’t-Read-Won’t-Reads who manage somehow to ignore not only bold type, but also Added Extra Bold Type In Capital Letters and pestered my Adultwork phone relentlessly, or so I found when I switched it on briefly for the routine tidying. Coincidentally, earlier this week over an informative lunch I was introduced to the Flesch-Kincaid Readability Test; these tests (to quote Wiki) ‘are designed to indicate comprehension difficulty when reading a passage of contemporary academic English’ – in a nutshell, the lower the numerical score, the more difficult and complex the writing. The scale runs between 1 and 100 with the highest score possible (easiest) apparently being around 120, indicating work comprising two word sentences made up entirely of single syllable words, or a reading/comprehension ability roughly on a par with the average buyer of the soon-to-be-departed (and I genuinely cannot remember the last occasion when a news announcement made me crave champagne quite so much as that one this afternoon) News Of The World.

The paragraph above scores 28.65 by way of an example; moderately complex but obviously not ridiculous – at a guess somewhere between the Telegraph and The Economist (a previous entry in its entirety scored 26.28 which probably means I ought to change my ways, or at least bend a little towards the shorter sentence and less flowery language, but hey ho). For comparison purposes, ‘the cat sat on the mat’ scores 116.15, or Very Easy. Now, back on topic, consider the following sentence: ‘Please email me with booking enquiries’. This comes in at 59.75, a score falling around the general level of a written assignment one would expect to be produced by an eleven year old. This sentence and variations of it (both simpler and slightly less so) feature prominently in my Adultwork profile. Go figure.

Anyway, being well practised at the art of numpty-ignoring I am not complaining; a switched off phone is hardly the most difficult thing to tolerate, after all! Instead, I have met all manner of new friends, including a delightful gentleman who arrived (inspired by that photo) with a punnet of strawberries and an imagination, a former Scarborough resident who happened to be passing (cue nostalgic discussion regarding What Is Still There – pubs, seafront shops, cafes – the Corner and the Stage Door being among those mourned) and best of all a lovely local lady; Sassy Ann (another very Nice prossie) has patiently listened to me all rabbit on over bagels, muffins and lumumbas this afternoon, and a fine time was had by all. The time has now come for packing up my fancy new lace nightie (see pic) and the final bedpicnic – I shall be back in Scarborough by lunchtime tomorrow, possibly following a brief return to the welcoming embrace of the gigantic Marks and Spencer on Northumberland Street (notable in itself for being officially the most expensive place in the UK to have a shop outside Oxford Street); an oasis of soothingly chilled, pre-packed calm boasting a selection of salads, deli offerings and sandwiches the like of which has never been seen in it’s Scarborough counterpart. Cor.

To next week, and filling up fast! Please note the addition of new working hours on my Rates page – nothing here is cast in stone given a lot of notice, but bookings outside these times should not generally be considered available (obviously this doesn’t count for places other than Scarborough) and hopefully these are clear. I will be around for the next couple of weeks until my trip to Oxford on the 25th, so anybody feeling keen please do get in touch. For the moment, the hedonistic joy of the minifridge, limitless tumble-dried towels and a final decadent wallowing in sheets that I will never have to wash myself is the order of the day. Home soon…

Huge apologies once again to those who have missed out, particularly the gentleman whose appointment today I had been looking forward to – rescheduling will be eminently possible by this time next week, and I will be tentatively taking short incalls from Monday assuming things calm down and the painkillers work – no guarantees. Until then I will be remaining safely on the couch, with possibly a gentle detour to the swimming pool, since the left side of my head already resembles a flotation device. By way of passing the time (since I have been home alone now since last week, and am running out of reading, viewing and knitting material) I have pondered on a question I am commonly asked which arose yet again whilst in London: ‘What’s A Nice Girl Like You Doing In A Job Like This?’

Firstly, I am well aware that my chosen vocation is not the only one which inextricably generates the most gratuitous stereotyping – we have all heard that accountants are boring (mine isn’t), builders are cowboys, and that lawyers and estate agents couldn’t lie straight in bed (no comment) and so on. Shelf stackers are the new thick (when I was at school it was emptying the bins, a singularly desirable and well respected occupation nowadays) and everybody knows that bankers are the new scum. But my job would appear to be the only one where even our customers, those who – lets not forget – are paying us significantly large sums of money, seem to be genuinely surprised when prostitutes turn out to be nice?

The word ‘nice’ can encompass a lot of things, and to clarify a little, on the occasions I am asked it is usually after I have opened the door and welcomed my guest not dressed like an extra from a Max Hardcore film, demonstrated my ability to not only string a sentence together but actually hold a conversation, spent at least ten minutes in a room with Mr Punter without scowling, moaning or texting anybody and probably even smiled a bit, as is my general demeanour when presented with folk who have picked me out, come along to make mischief and have a jolly time. None of this presents a particular stretch to me, and what I have always wondered is that if my gentleman visitors were not expecting me to be chatty, friendly, obliging and generally a good egg, yet were STILL prepared to turn up and hand over a couple of hundred quid – what exactly were they expecting?

Now, I can only speak for myself, but it is worth pointing out a couple of things – I, whilst generally fairly placid and amenable, am most certainly not Nice all the time as anybody who has got on the wrong side of me will testify. I am not educated (doing well at school being another trad Nice Girl trait which is why I mention it, since it seems to be a misapprehension laboured under by a significant proportion of those who meet me) and whilst I have over the years encountered ladies who would give a privet hedge a run for it’s money in terms of cognitive ability, this has made no difference at all to their personal qualities or their ability to do their job. Virtually every successful prostitute I have ever met has been nice, far nicer than most civvy people, and bar a couple of jaw-droppingly greedy, bitter and mercenary examples putting in an occasional appearance on some of the industry message boards (and sometimes under the guise of the most sickening butter-wouldn’t-melt posting personae) this has held true, and the latter tend not to stick around for long. Thus it could almost be said, albeit from my limited experience, that our being Nice was virtually a given? Particularly since other desirable qualities in an intimate partner – however temporary – would surely be sensitivity, tolerance, compassion and humanity, amongst others?

This is not a snob subject either – OK, I don’t offer short or ‘on-demand’ appointments, I do screen clients mainly by the way they approach and communicate with me (and yes, the text speak aficionados do go in the bin) and naturally I am at my best when in the company of people who behave kindly and respectfully; I don’t think this is a result of Niceness, just self-preservation, but I suspect that it alters the way prospective punters view me, and more tellingly themselves – I only see Nice prostitutes (or God preserve us, ‘escorts’), therefore I must be Nice too. More importantly, of the ladies who do encounter the punters I do not, their many positive reports would seem to suggest that they are the nicest of all – I believe (without checking) the current statistics on Punternet show that over 90% of FRs are positive, and whilst obviously many punters have never heard of reports and this is only one site (plus naturally not all of these positives will be attributed to Niceness per se) it doesn’t exactly suggest an industry packed full of cold, uncommunicative robot-women either. I should also state that I am talking about the people who do their jobs properly, and we all know there are plenty who do not; to say that prostitutes are all miserable, deceitful witches because of this is like saying that all window cleaners are useless because they leave streaks on the windows – they don’t, just the bad ones.

It could be argued that since I do not fill my advertising, blog or correspondence with tawdry, contrived rubbish about how I spend all my free time playing with my tits and can’t wait until I next get my hands on a massive cock because I am so horny (and when was good old British ‘randy’ relegated in favour of this abomination anyway?) all the time that I may come across as Nice in the ‘prim and proper’ sense (which is probably fair) but if I did I would still be the same prossie only with a bit of unimaginative desperation thrown in, plus there are undoubtedly people who both want and actively seek that kind of thing. My advertising would in my view be very boring, although it’s worth pointing out that this is practically de rigueur on Adultwork, and a blog with no cheerful tragi-touting would be an odd one indeed. Most crucially, none of this makes said bloggers, touts and anybody else who has ever made up a load of simplistic soft-porn cobblers hoping it will win a few more over any less NICE. As the song says, it ain’t what you do, it’s the way that you do it…

Anyway, I have rambled enough for now and my trifle-with-a-cheeky-side-of-Metronidazole awaits. If the gentlemen who have asked over the years are reading, I am aware that this doesn’t answer your question but it has given me something to do (until I next get my hands on you-guessed-it, haha) and for that alone I am eternally grateful. Time for rest, bringing-of-the-quilt-to-the-settee, and a quiet evening. More soon.

Needless to say, the week has been a lively one, but the opportunity for a bit of a change of scene came in the unlikely shape of a very pleasant dinner engagement in (where else but) Hull, and whilst I admit to setting off with some trepidation, a delightful companion (who was no more local than I am, and probably extremely relieved), unexpectedly pleasant surroundings and well above par food down at the marina (and even a map of shipping routes on the wall of the Ladies) resulted in a very welcome diversion, at least until it was time to return to my own room at the budget chain over the road, and attempt sleep until the morning train home.

Those who recall my last foray into the <£50 bracket will know that these are not generally my preference; the Hull outpost fortunately lacked the teeth-rattlingly noisy air blower of it’s Sheffield companion but only in the sense that the air blower didn’t work at all, and the resultant open-windowed night listening to the coming and goings on Ferensway did not lend the ambience it might. Having said that, it did mean that I was up bright and early to catch the 0654 and was thus home in plenty of time for coffee, toasted butteries with jam and the morning yoga class, much to the bewilderment of the fishes who have never seen me before 10am unless a jaunt is in the offing. They must have been amazed when I came back in a couple of hours, and I idly wondered whether they believed I had been away for four or five days – who knows…

Speaking of jaunts, I have managed to finally get the next few weeks organised and am pleased to announce upcoming trips to Newcastle and (finally) Oxford, which some will remember I have been supposedly visiting for the last eighteen months or so and until now have been repeatedly scuppered every time I tried to make arrangemetns; mostly down to human error (mine) but also the Great God of Unforeseen Circumstances, whose will controls us all. Anyway, I will be back in the Toon for a couple of days at the start of July, and Oxford for another couple towards the end – see the About page! Proper ads will be going up soon, but preliminary enquiries are all welcome, and I am keenly anticipating my sort-of mini breaks; any sightseeing tips for Oxford will be gratefully received, even though I never have the time to try them out.

To London this next week, and I am almost completely booked up; anybody still keen to visit at any time other than Wednesday evening, Thursday morning or Saturday late afternoon is almost certain to be disappointed – sorry! I am looking forward to my visit very much and particularly the new leg up at Euston, where I am planning tea-and-a-snoop at the newly refurbished and utterly stunning-looking Renaissance hotel at St Pancras station, a devoted restoration job so fabulous that it is possible to actually arrange a guided tour of the place here. Which, time allowing,  I might. OK, I will. I will be back in Scarborough from Monday 20th and am already taking appointments for that week – the warm weather and sunshine does tend to bring out the enthusiam in the punting populace and very welcome it is too!

Lastly, and for those who haven’t noticed yet, the long awaited new pics what I took last Monday are up on the site, and as you can see above I have even catered for those who have been ribbing me for years about my lack of hairbrushing (behold! I’ve got one). Whilst the lovely bright natural light is with us I will be taking more, so any (sensible) requests are welcomed, and I will post more as soon as I have the opportunity. Enjoy!

Current news from Cow-Watch, we have passed several fields of ordinary looking beasties minding their own business but no rugged Highland types as yet – at the time of writing there is another two hours plus yet, to be fair, and ever the optimist I will be poised with BlackBerry camera at the ready. Adultwork readers will have to content themselves with a black square or similar as per the site rules, which saw even poor Chubby Chops mercilessly censored last week after I forgot them. The sun is shining and all being well, I will be enjoying the Highlands both with company and without until Thursday morning – yay!

My long-awaited weekend in Edinburgh has been as much fun as always, and I managed to squeeze in the requisite Yo Sushi visit (natch) plus some fabulous Thai food with a pal on Saturday evening, a leisurely stroll down to the modern art gallery (where I was unexpectedly delighted to find an exhibition featuring longtime favourite Jeff Koons – one of my best impromptu coincidences in a while) and rounded the trip off with a bus ride out to Leith for a soothing massage at Pure and a look at the Royal Yacht Britannia. This in addition to some very charming gentleman company including a couple of blasts from the past (and more than one first-hurdle-faller; the iron-stomached may like to browse the AW ‘escort’ profile of one particular optimist if visiting, for possibly the most mindbogglingly repellent attempt at Impressing The Laydeez yet to be committed to cyberspace – I’ll leave the details of our brief communication for readers to enjoy speculating on (and I won’t hammer the poor sod further by posting a link here) but suffice to say, fans of SAAFE’s legendary How Not To Book An Escort thread would not be disappointed and nor was I, although I don’t believe a suitable word is yet in use to describe what I actually was (I did my best).

Availability-wise, er, not much; despite the best efforts of the legions of AW I-know-it-says-to-email-but-I’ll-ring-anyway-because-she-probably-doesn’t-really-mean-it chancers I have only a handful of appointments left, and these are unlikely to last much beyond tomorrow allowing for time looking round, finding haggis and so forth. London is looking likewise – phew! Meanwhile back at the ranch, I am happy to announce that my Race For Life last sponsoring chance Special Offer Week will run from Monday 6th – Friday 10th June, and details will be posted on Saturday – this is our final opportunity to raise the sponsorship total as I will be sending it in shortly afterwards, so take note!

Further reportage from the Highlands later in the week. Back in That Scarborough on Friday…

Another gentle and calming week with plenty of visitors old and new, and for the first time in weeks, ten consecutive days have now gone by without me seeing the inside of a railway station! Instead I have (at various stages) been out in the lovely weather for coffee and gossip with friends, started some new knitting, got a (very little) bit more DIY done and even bounced on a bouncy castle. I have also managed to drop a hairdryer on my foot this morning (ouch) whilst preparing for a rare Sunday assignation, with a very pleasant new friend who was good enough to tell me that my Gallery was not working in Firefox and possibly has not been for a month – aaargh. It ought to be OK now, and I am told was fine in Internet Explorer (which I haven’t used in so long I’d forgotten it existed), but huge apologies to anybody who couldn’t work out where all the blessed photies had gone! Bollocks, as the saying goes…

Preparations are well underway for my trip to Edinburgh from Friday onwards, and I am hoping the current beautiful sunshine travels with me! Readers of a certain duration may remember my Aberdeen/Edinburgh visit last year a fortnight or so earlier, which resulted in improbably sunburned shoulders, a lesson in how to perfectly aim a desk fan at a hotel bed and a frantic trip to Accessorize for flipflops to try and offset the blistering heat – this year the plan is to either A: pack everything from sunglasses and bikini to snowboots (bearing in mind that I am also visiting Inverness), or B: to pack nothing bar the bare bones (stockings, Kindle, proper tea bags) and then paddle around the shops obtaining the necessities as needed. I like the second one, especially since Edinburgh also boasts a Harvey Nichols.

This week has also brought the highest yet number of oddballs, timewasting and otherwise for a considerable period, and for the first time in three years* I was compelled to actually send a visitor home from the parking place without admitting him. It may therefore be an opportune time to remind eager potential visitors that what may seem like a flippant, lighthearted (or God forbid, funny) off-the-cuff comment to you can make you sound by turns intimidating, juvenile or just plain weird to us, and all of those things either singularly or in combination are likely to lead to a wasted journey, including for the gentleman who had driven from York only to fall at the last hurdle and be turned around again. As ever, manners cost nothing (and reap plenty).

Along similar lines, I would also point out that whilst it is acceptable to be late (and we all know that travelling to Scarborough in good weather can be a logistical nightmare at the best of times) if you are going to be half an hour late you need to say so, and not tell me you will be here in ten minutes. By the time the gentleman in question arrived I had long since got changed and was about to go out. Conversely, please don’t ring me with twenty minutes to spare to announce your presence – I am generally ready two to five minutes before start time and be assured, the cast-iron, unfailing, 100% certain way to get me in a complete flap is to turn up early. If you want an appointment at ten minutes to two, say so and I’ll be ready – just don’t then turn up at twenty-to! There endeth the lesson, although I am beginning to think that a follow up post to the previous ‘newbie’ one from way back when could be on it’s way. Watch this space…

To this week – I will be in Scarborough until Thursday (which is limited for purposes of packing and fridge-emptying); Wednesday is already booked bar the evening and as ever, I will not be taking any short notice appointments or same day bookings after twelve, no matter how many times I have seen you or much money you offer me (sorry, lesson definitely endethed now!) In the meantime, and for those not watching on Adultwork – a new picture! Rest to follow when I have time, impatient Formspring folk and others…*the last one, three years or so ago, telephoned at half past three to inform me that he was in Scarborough ready for his half past six appointment and when told he could come back in an hour but not before, spent the intervening time ringing me from telephone boxes to tell me where he was at all times along the route to the landmark near my old place. Needless to say he was on his way back to Whitby with a flea in his ear well before half past six, and I was on my way to the pub.

Having arrived comfortably and serenely (if not entirely according to plan) by National Express on Tuesday afternoon, my first port of call was the Travellodge (not being officially ‘on duty’ in my usual accommodation until Wednesday) and whilst this particular offshoot was modern, clean and completely inoffensive, the same could not unfortunately be said for the other occupants and after being woken up for the second time in one night by the sort of incidental-but-constant crashing about which resembles having halfbricks dropped on your head, I longed for the peaceful tranquility of my regular London pad, where my fellow guests at least belong to a demographic that wears clothes which one has to fasten.

I did get the opportunity beforehand to visit the Crossroads Women’s Centre in Kentish Town and was made very welcome – the centre is home to several grassroots women’s organisations and also a homeopathy clinic; it is the base of the English Collective of Prostitutes and I was delighted to meet both Niki Adams and Cari Mitchell, longtime campaigners for those among us who are often overlooked, misrepresented and dismissed by both wider society and the law. Anybody who (like me) enjoyed watching Niki make the improbably obnoxious Dennis McShane squirm on Newsnight (and if not, do have a look at the link below when you have the opportunity – warning, there is sound)

Sex Trafficking Lies – Newsnight 21st October 2009

would have looked forward to a meeting, and after tea and lots of positive conversation on sex worker safety, law and our lot in general (which I am ashamed to admit I was far too tired to participate in at any sort of useful level) I left, literature in hand to eat, answer emails and finally collapse until the aforementioned cast of Animal House came to life and well, buggered it up. I look forward to catching up with the Women’s Centre and the ECP next time (if they’ll have me) and hopefully offer a bit more constructive input, rather than the incoherent ramblings of one who is running on two hours sleep – the opportunity for me to meet other women is one that comes round all too rarely, after all!

Those who visited during my trip will be aware of the next surprise awaiting me on Wednesday morning – an unexpected hotel upgrade to an upper floor mini-suite so large, well-appointed and comfortable that I harboured secret fantasies about being forgotten by the management and hiding away there for another week. Naturally, I didn’t dare unpack anything for over an hour in case it was a mistake but nope – the room was very much mine; having made girly lunch arrangements for fetish-clothes-and-cake-shopping with Kinky La Rue there was no time to agonise about it, and following a brief minor emergency due entirely to my elderly work phone, lots of fun was had with a visit to the fabulous Honour store just round the corner (whose website I have long admired, and the shop is no less enthralling or pocket-draining), her latest baking-find Konditor and Cook for cakes to die for (the second slab did at least make it through to breakfast-time) and Yo Sushi (for gossip, New York talk and Japanese lunch to feel virtuous about). For those who may be keeping up from the Big Apple, Kinky will be arriving very soon…   (and that’s really enough with the links, especially since it isn’t really fair on the Adultwork readers).

The remainder of the week has seen me entertain no small number of enthusiastic gentlemen, finally purchase my much-needed (Brooks) running shoes and discovering in the process that (as predicted) I have the flattest feet in the world, which makes me an Over Pronator (as diagnosed by the very helpful lady who sent me jogging up and down outside Greggs in order to properly assess my gait). I have also looked at the James Watt Workshop, goggled mesmerised at the huge steam engines and generally enjoyed the lengths and breadths of the Science Museum, dashed happily about the Oxford Circus Topshop (and wound up purchasing in Zara, another personal high street favourite on the We-Don’t-Have-That-In-Scarborough list) and not forgetting the ample time spent relaxing around my lovely hotel room in my oversized dressing gown, watching Mock The Week repeats on Dave with one eye and reading undemanding fiction on my faithful Kindle with the other. It’s a hard life, right enough.

To this week and a bit of a rest! I will be available on and off, but intend to take advantage of the chance to catch up on household and administrative stuff prior to my Coventry trip next week – enquiries for this are beginning to pile in and anybody wishing to book, please do get in touch as soon as you can to avoid disappointment, especially since I’ll be gone before you know it! As per usual, no same day bookings will be forthcoming, but anybody wishing to see me before I head off to the Midlands will surely find a way (and for everybody else, I’ll be back on Monday the 18th).

More news on Scotland soon – plus Race for Life info! Until next time…

The joys had, of course, to be tempered by something and this turned out to be the arrival of not only a shiny new 2011 council tax bill, but also my gas statement for the last six months – how quickly we forget the weeks spent cowering indoors, hermit-like from the Siberian conditions outside! A brief sit-down and a mug of sweet tea was necessary, followed by a telephone conversation with the delightful people at Southern Energy who confirmed that they had been fielding calls for days from others who (like myself) just blithely turned the boiler up and kept it there from pretty much November onwards; others who (unlike myself) at least still have the traditional option of going ‘on the game’ to meet any temporary cashflow crisis. Obviously this idea has limited usefulness to me as a fallback, and I can only be thankful that I like jacket potatoes very much, and that my pre-Christmas hoarding of useful supplies (coffee, tea and toilet rolls, ginger snaps and those tinned baked beans with the little sausages in) has by no means run out.

Fortunately for me, flexible arrangements were made and coincidentally the next day followed up with my finally tracking down the only remaining pair of Ravel’s black Size 4 ‘Faye’ patent platforms in the land (or seemingly so, as my quest to obtain a pair has now been dragging on for months) on Amazon, of all places, so I could happily purchase these (above) with a clear conscience (and a slightly cooler apartment). The darker days have gone (fingers crossed), the taxman is pacified for another few months, the annual ISA race is run (and finished!) and I am approaching the coming months with the new enthusiasm that a bit of sunshine brings. I may even get some serious decorating done at last; yes, the hallway is still decidedly ‘derelict chic’, but many of the other bits are slowly progressing and the rapid upturn in phone calls and email enquiries for the next few weeks is encouragement indeed!

To London, and my very favourite shiny-shiny hotel, which has thankfully been overlooked so far by a spectacularly hard-of-thinking prossie, whom – touring lady readers beware – has taken it upon herself to ‘help’ others by publicly listing named hotels suitable for entertaining from on her blog (no prizes for guessing the site); this was brought to my attention earlier today and frankly you couldn’t make it up (needless to say, the only people she is ‘helping’ are the eagerly reading hotel managers). Anyway, my availability is dwindling seriously now, although there are some scattered appointments left and as some have happily found before I am always happy to try and wrangle last-minute slots wherever possible – so flexible types, it’s probably your last chance!

My plans for this week were altered somewhat (apart from the need to go shoe shopping for the second time in a week, but at the specialist running shop) by the joyous news of a new James Watt exhibit at the Science museum where the man himself’s very workshp has been reconstructed, and I shall certainly be visiting this (and no doubt boring anyone who’ll listen to death with it) during my stay. Regular readers will already be aware of my anorak-dom when it comes to matters of engineering, transport and the like and coupled with plans to catch up with some of my favourite ladies and try a new Lebanese restaurant I discovered by accident (thank you again Just-Eat), I am looking forward to a lively week after the comparative tranquility of home since my return from New York.

I have also planned my next trip to Scotland, and am pleased to announce I will be visiting not just Edinburgh as usual but also Inverness, and since the hotel and train costs were a steal I will be looking forward to plenty of peaceful me-time for exploring the beautiful surroundings, monster hunting, haggis-wrangling and hopefully encountering a few of the Highland cows I sadly missed on my last trip north of the capital. Any helpful local info will be gratefully received – I am not yet taking appointments since the trip is two months away yet, but intrepid Highlanders are very welcome to get in touch with enquiries/tips/suggestions! I will be in Edinburgh first from Friday 27th – Sunday 29th of May, and after the baking heat and blazing sunshine of last year’s late-spring visit I intend to be far better prepared (whereupon naturally, it will piss down and blow a hurricane all week).

My travels will nicely follow the departure of Trish Godman, MSP for West Renfrewshire; those north of the border may have recently seen Ms Godman has published her ‘findings’ following the latest tediously predictable attempt to outlaw paid sex between consenting adults (and also including banning it’s advertising, as in Ireland where obviously prostitution does not now exist). Early interpretations and a statement from the Journal of the Law Society of Scotland (which has been plastered over so much online space already we really do not need to see it again here) would suggest that once again she (or more accurately her successor) will have shot themselves in the foot, this time via the suggestions that prostitutes be criminalised as well as punters (and newspapers, hotels, and the internet – the polis will be busy) in the name of Gender-Neutrality and Fairness – ironic, since denying adults such a basic free choice as whom they may have sex with and why probably isn’t the first thing most people would nominate as ‘fair’. That you packed yet, Trish?

Back to the present, and apologies to those who have been trying to contact me by telephone over the weekend – I have stepped up my training for the Race for Life somewhat and barely been near the apartment (this obviously does not apply to Adultwork readers, for whom the email system is obligatory rather than just a clearly expressed preference). Those who know me will be astounded to learn that I have not only run the 5k four times now (admittedly with walk breaks) but raised seventy pounds in sponsorship already without even trying! Long may the trend continue, and there will be a special offer the week of the run itself to celebrate – watch this space…

Time for packing, pampering and preparation! Back in Scarborough from Monday 4th…

I began last week with the nostalgic pleasure of a night at an airport budget-chain hotel (keycarded lifts as a legitimate security measure rather than a headache being something of a novelty) and the following morning the excitement of visiting Heathrow’s Terminal 4 for the first time. Having always been a Terminal 3 person (even so far managing to avoid the mighty Terminal 5) this was a delight nonetheless, particularly the early and unexpected discoveries of briskly pleasant check-in and security staff, a wholly inoffensive Starbucks (admittedly I was tired) and best of all, ACTUAL OPEN PRODUCT TESTERS on the La Prairie skincare counter, into which I hurriedly immersed myself as fully as I could before they changed their minds, finally walking away coated in at least enough luxury product to cover the cost of a short break somewhere a bit D-list.

Several hours later and having survived the completely uneventful yet terrifying prospect of being turned around at the famously ruthless JFK immigration desk (the usual inhabitants of which I can only assume were having a day off), I was through and heading suitcase-in-hand for the Airtrain within half an hour of disembarking the 767. A scant few minutes and a Metrocard after that I was heading through subway stations with exciting names that I happily recognised from TV; Forest Hills and Jackson Heights in Queens, and Manhattan itself with Fifth and Lexington Avenues and Broadway – I did eventually manage to visit four of the five boroughs with the only exception being the Bronx, having abandoned my semi-planned excursion to the zoo when it started to become clear just how far away it was (aka much further than it looked on the map).

As described in the previous entry, the first twenty-four hours or so may not have caught me at my best, although a good lunch with a charming gentleman lifted my spirits somewhat and marked my first chance to actually leave the hotel since checking in. Sheer tiredness on my arrival led me to resignedly hit the online food ordering sites, eventually deciding on a ‘one person’ prix fixe Turkish dinner selection which was cheerfully delivered to my door shortly afterwards, could comfortably have fed a family of four (and see upper left picture) and provided me with dinner, breakfast and hummus-based snacks for the next two days. This almost made up for the abject horror arising from the discovery (following a room search that would have done CSI proud and in the end, a confused call to Guest Services) that my accommodation did not supply a kettle, and as a result, my trip has also taught me the useful skill of sort-of-successfully making tea in a microwave.

My remaining days passed with delightful company, fascinating and unmissable sightseeing – the giant beehive that is the Guggenheim was worth the trip all on it’s own and I count myself extremely lucky to have arrived early on Sunday as I did, since the Great Upheaval exhibition I had been looking forward to for months was proving popular enough to have crowds queuing down Fifth Avenue by the time I left – Franz Marc’s lovely Yellow Cow (1911) being a favourite of mine, for anyone who might be interested. Add on some seriously fabulous (VAT-free) shopping, although nowhere near enough as it turned out; having made the trip into Scarborough town centre yesterday to exchange my hard-earned $ for £, I soon realised that far from castigating myself for buying two pairs of earrings in Chanel, I may as well have spent the lot given that the measly amount of sterling on offer was nothing short of insulting, and I returned home with my moderate pile of bills exactly as I set off. Next time (and there will certainly be a next time) I’ll just blow what’s left on a handbag like everybody else.

Looking bored and dismissive in expensive shops is one of the unparalleled joys of visiting the world’s major cities (Dior, Vuitton and Gucci being particular favourites of mine, boasting as they normally do exceptionally pretentious and po-faced assistants) alongside travelling on public transport and talking to shop assistants and waitresses, and I have enjoyed doing lots of all three! As far as honourable mentions go: the award for shop assistants would go to the lovely ladies of Sephora, a perennial favourite of mine since I discovered the 24 hour girly-fest on the Champs Élysées some years ago (their couldn’t-do-enough NY counterparts were incredulous that we don’t have branches in the UK, and considering some of their chosen store locations, so am I).

A very close second to be handed to my ‘helper’ in the Macy’s shoe department, where the tail end of the winter boot sale (and resulting final reductions) had spawned feral packs of narrow-eyed, predatory women moving stealthily between the chaotic display tables, discreetly registering the latest additions and descending without mercy on any glimpse of a 75% off label like jackals, whilst the accompanying menfolk skulked nervously around the periphery laden with many bags of previous hard-won trophies. The scene could have been intimidating to say the least, but thanks to the lovely Patrice, I walked away virtually unscathed and with a pair of camel coloured Italian suede knee boots for a little under forty five quid – original RRP $298. Yay!

More New York stories to follow as and when. It would seem that Spring has most definitely sprung, and I returned home half-crazed from sleep deprivation to a non-stop-ringing phone and a not-inconsiderable pile of emails, and as a result have no available appointments now before Monday at least (or Sunday at a push). The ads are up and I am officially back for more hijinks in That London from the 30th until the 3rd of April, when I plan to come home and collapse for a couple of weeks prior to my flying visit to Coventry! It’s glamour all the way, right enough…