The last few days have been rather tiring - starting work at 7am and going through to 2am. I've been working on a photoshoot for the new project, making sure that naked couples aren't showing any rude bits in pics. I've also been writing a lot more articles about sex (for the same project). I feel jetlagged. Going from a noon-4am working pattern to a 7am-2am pattern overnight was not good for me. Living on 4 slices of pizza for two days was a bad thing too. Still, today I ate lots of food and got a lie in till 9am.
Had a lot of fun doing the shoot. I can't believe how many times I had to yell 'cock out of shot' to the male models (they were naked but we're not showing their bits - it's all sensual human form kind of stuff). I was also rather surprised at how suitable for an adult shoot most of my clothes are. We needed more outfits for the second day. I raided my wardrobe and about eighty per cent of it was dragged to the shoot. Top tip. Never let models borrow your dresses. They look far better in them than you ever will and it's most disheartening.
By way of balance, the lovely make-up artist did my make-up for me on the last day (I looked rather rough beforehand, was going out and didn't want to frighten anyone.) I liked being pampered. But not as much as I like the idea of getting some sleep right now.
I've just landed a fantastic project. Sadly, it's all hush hush so I guess broadcasting it to the three or so readers here would still be not allowed. I can say that I'm going to be an editor (again) which is ace. I can also say that it's going to be about sex, so at least it's a subject area I'm comfortable with. Every day that passes, I get more and more grateful that I got off my arse to set up Cliterati because it's constantly opening new doors.
Having dreams is a good thing. I tend to have many - and do many things at once. Some of them are daft - at 16, one of my dreams was to go on a carousel horse because I hadn't ever been on one. I lived it out and it was a top laugh, giggling away as I whizzed around - the only 'adult' on a fairground ride otherwise populated by five years olds.
At 21, I decided I wanted to do a festival and, with the help of many, many lovely people, managed it in three weeks on a zero budget. We got 3,000 people through the doors and made £20K over the bar in 14 hours (I was doing it for love not money so didn't see any profits.)
And then last year, I decided (along with some girlie mates) that there should be a female-oriented sex site offering free masturbation material. We're doing half a million pages every month so it seems to be working.
If you've got a dream, go for it. It may not be easy, will probably involve (many, many, many) nights working late and will be very likely to make you panic on occasion but it really is worth it.
Yesterday was a strangely sextastic day. I went to a casting for the sexual positions script to help choose the actors. Watching people get naked all day was an interesting definition of work. Didn't know quite how to react when one of the blokes asked me not to look at him when he was naked or he'd get a hard on. Flattering, I guess.
Then, I went on to the Cake Party. It was a fun night. Went with the editor of Inthebuff, my other half and a foxy male friend (he's been in endless 'sexiest bachelor' features in the women's mag, so it's not just me who thinks so.).
Got a free pair of knickers at the party (women on roller-skates were handing them out, all nicely wrapped in tissue paper). On the plus side, they're from Agent Provocateur. On the minus side, they're pink and red kind of fishnet stuff. Still, presents are nice. Also got a free lapdance, which was cool - although strange to have after seeing so many people get naked in an entirely 'work' way earlier in the day.
Was interesting seeing the way that women reacted to being danced for. They all thanked the dancers and didn't try to touch the person dancing for them. Needless to say, there were many men looking on with their jaws to the floor as women danced for other women (there were male dancers too but lots of women chose women to dance for them). Bless 'em.
They also had women handing out free vodka jellies. My head hates me for drinking (Eating? Slurping?) them. And drinking beer. And drinking wine. Am seriously hungover.
75 per cent of 16-25 year olds don't regularly use condoms when they have sex. As a result, all manner of STIs are on the increase, including HIV/AIDS.
World AIDS Day: Link and Think is looking to spread the word that AIDS is still out there. I'll be adding the banner as soon as I can upload it.
(Link originally seen on Destruction for Dummies) It's well worth getting involved.
And don't just think online. Last year, Cliterati ran a sex quiz to raise money for Terrence Higgins Trust. We charged people £5 to enter and all proceeds went to THT. If any of you reckon you'd like to run a sex quiz to raise money for AIDS charities, I'll happily email you the questions we used.
If you can't run a fundraiser, buy a red ribbon. Donate some cash. And most importantly *wear a condom*. The only excuse not to is if you're in a monogamous relationship and have both been tested and had the results come back clean. Even then, it's worth getting a checkup every year. I watched a mate of my mum's die of AIDS when I was 13. It's fucking grim. Another one of my mates contracted herpes the first time she had sex. Use a condom. There are loads to choose from, you can get them free from Family Planning Clinics if you're skint. Even if you hate them (if you do, try using lube inside and outside them) it's way better than the alternative(s).
I'm into the home run on the sexual positions script now. It was getting distinctly 'hokey-cokey'-feeling (put your left leg in...etc) towards the end so I'm glad I'm nearly done. Looking forward to hearing back from the sexual position testers on what they think. Am also looking forward to being able to write a sex scene without having to say whether or not it deepens penetration, stimulates the clit or hits the G-spot.
I've been invited to the casting for the film on Wednesday but it's the Cake Porn Party/launch that night so I don't think I can go. Meeting the editor of In the buff magazine beforehand and have invited a fair few mates to the porn party so should be a fun night.
Also just started as the 'Chief Orgasm Officer' for LoveHoney. I'll be testing sex toys for them (*two* jobs reviewing sex toys - what more could a girl want), mailing a few mates to see if they're interested in checking them out and answering a few questions about shagging/sex toys/random lewdness.
Decided to start a monthly sex newsletter for journos now that I seem to be getting so much random info from all over the place on what's going on sex-wise. Have already had a couple of people say they want to receive it, which is cool.
Am also quite pleased with the way my novel's going. Got about 3,000 words done in the last couple of days. Clearly a productive week.
(Well, I hope not. Other than possibly getting a touch of RSI) Yes, it's a weasel on a computer. Certainly an unusual way to promote a new book. But it's by Scott Adams so is hence a must buy.
OK, so it's no big news that NTL aren't exactly the most popular service providers in the world but they've still managed to fuck me off so I'm going to rant about them.
Today, I'm going to see the new Harry Potter film. Yes, I'm an adult and I shouldn't be watching kids' films but then again, I probably shouldn't be buying penny sweets and playing on swings either and I don't see any reason to stop doing those things. So, I decided to watch the first film again on Front Row - the 'film on demand' channel NTL provide. I booked it last night. It got to the time it was supposed to run. It delivered ITV on the Front Row channel. I turned back over so's not to have to pay for the film (you get a 6 minute 'turn over' period before you get charged, apparently. I'll be looking at my next bill closely.) I figured it was a random glitch. Indeed, it was.
When I booked the show for the next half hour slot, it delivered the cartoon channel. Cue, call to NTL fault repair. 'Sorry. We're only open in office hours.' said the recorded line before cutting me off.
I called customer service. 'You appear to want customer service at the weekend. Fuck off.' said the phoneline (OK, not quite but it's only a vague paraphrasing.)
Other half gets home. I tell him what's happened. He calls the operator who says it should be open and tries to get hold of *anyone* at NTL who's around over the weekend. He gets onto a phone tree with the usual 'Press one to be told to fuck off now, two to hang on the phone for five minutes before you're told to fuck off, three to get transferred to another phoneline that will tell you to fuck off in 15 minutes.' Half way through one of these messages, an answerphone kicks in (!) He leaves an irate message saying 'We want to talk to someone about making our TV work.' It cuts him off mid way through. Two minutes later, the phone goes.
Phone Bunny: 'Hello, you have an emergency?'
Other Half: 'Our TV on demand system doesn't work.'
PB: Why did you phone 999 for that?'
OH: 'I didn't. I called the NThell fault line.'
PB: 'Why did you leave a message on my answerphone?'
OH: 'Because the phone tree directed me to it.'
Conversation goes on for another ten minutes. This leads me to three questions:
1 Why the hell did a customer helpline refer people to a 999 number. OK, I wanted to watch the film but it sure as hell wasn't going to put me in peril if I didn't (OK, if I had PMT, other half may have been in fear of his life cos I couldn't get what I wanted, but generally...)
2 Why did a 999 operator spend ten minutes talking about TV to someone rather than saying 'Oh, that's bad. Better go. Got to deal with emergencies.'
3 WTF is a 999 number doing with an answerphone service (that doesn't specify what it is)? Conjures up images of 'Press one if you're being brutally attacked, two if fire is creeping up your ankles and three if you're in the process of drowning.'
Not to be deterred, I tried to watch the film again today. It delivered some sports channel. Other half phones them up. On the plus side, after hanging on the phone for ages, he gets to speak to a real person. Apparently this problem has been happening for 'about two years. Some people get it. Some don't.' When will it be fixed? 'Oh, we're not sure why it happens.'
Fan-fucking-tastic.
Am off to spend obscene amount of money to see second film at cinema now. Hopefully, it won't be playing the sports channel instead.
I'm on the Virgin Books newsletter. Had to click through to see the book that merited the description Why are young people running amok, fuelled by hatred and nihilism, with little regard for their own lives and the lives of those around them?. Subtle.
Had a few mates round for dinner last night. As ever, we ended up drinking excessive amounts, albeit absorbed by plenty of food.
Have figured out how to make really gorgeous pizza; something that had evaded me until recently. Buy a packet of pizza dough mix. Chuck in some olive oil as well as water. Bake it on foil so it doesn't droop all over the oven (having first shaped it into a pizza base, obviously) . Take it out the oven, turn it over and cover with fresh tomatoes, finely chopped onion, mozarella and then dollop on home made pesto and squidge around the ingredients on top of the pizza until they're all covered in it. Put in oven until the mozarella has melted.
Home made pesto even easier - bung a packet of basil, about 1/4 packet pine nuts, a couple of cloves of garlic and a generous grating of parmesan in the blender. Set it going and add olive oil until it looks about the right thickness.
Also made risotto balls which are ace fun to do. You get to grab handfuls of risotto and (having lobbed mozarella in the middle of them) roll them around in egg and breadcrumbs. It's the grown up equivalent to making mud pies but tastes far nicer.
Cooking aside, I had a fun night. A guy I met recently came over. He's a photographer and has worked with loads of famous people (Michael Jackson, the queen that kind of thing) so had lots of ace stories. Michael Jackson sounds like he's got a great sense of humour, which surprised me. Despite hanging out with celebs and doing the whole glamorous lifestyle thing, the photographer seemed quite happy with dinner and wine in a one bed flat in a not particularly cool part of London, which was nice.
Also had a friend from my university days who's a real sweetie and the world's best cook (except for possibly my stepmum). She's the one who lent me the blowtorch which she felt very guilty about. I told her not to be so stupid and gave her another drink.
And there was another mate/client who I do some sex writing for, so obviously the conversation was smutty for a fair amount of time. Nothing new there, I guess.
This morning, I woke up very hungover so decided to go back to sleep. It worked. I woke up more or less hangover free but very hungry. I forgot to bring out the Ferrero Rocher last night so had them for breakfast (at 3.30pm) with 'melt your teeth' strength coffee and orange juice. Surprisingly good breakfast.
Now I know that other people's pain is boring as hell but hey, blogging is all about that personal shit that no-one cares about and given the number of people who've enquired about the glitter situation (shockingly enough, it's still lingering. A daily bath plus intensive scrubbing with Body Shop bath mitts has had very little impact. According to my other half it's even on the bathroom cleaning sponge. And he's still got some showing up in his stubble.) I figured I'd update you on the boot situation.
Last week, I went to a Halloween Party and en-route I wore my comfy shoes. Comfy shoes are infinitely less comfy when worn with fishnets. As a result, I tore the back of my ankles to shreds. Result: I had to wear another pair of shoes for the rest of the week while they healed. Being rather less than a shoe-devotee (shopping for clothes is dull. Shopping for shoes, more so.) I had a choice of deeply impractical maribou toed velvet sandals or the evil boots. I chose the latter.
Tonight, I had a break-through. I wore them. They didn't hurt. I have suffered and now, I have a pair of beautiful - and not uncomfortable - boots. I am happy. And clearly shallow.
I'm writing the new Lovers' Guide film script at the moment. It's finally getting there - few more tweaks and some vox-pops and I'm done, which is nice. Was beginning to get position-blindness after reading endless sexual position books from the ancient texts through to the more recent stuff.
Now, we're just looking for position testers (figured that all the positions should be thoroughly tested by people so we could get lots of genuine quotes about them - the testers won't actually appear on screen.) Also looking for couples to take part in the film. Sometimes I wonder about my job. Love it though.
Geek Girl pants. Totally cool. Wear your code on your crotch. Or something.
I'm currently very hungover (seeming like a common thread at the moment) as I went to a party last night and didn't get to bed until 6am. The party was in Wales. We got to Newport. It started raining. It carried on raining when we reached Cardiff and didn't stop until this morning. Jo is right. It does always rain in Wales.
Sadly, excess of alcohol meant that when someone mentioned the Stereophonics, I gave my honest opinion - namely that their music is whiny and bland - forgetting that I was in Wales and would therefore get lynched. No matter how much I protested that I liked Catatonia and Tom Jones, I still couldn't win. Was persona non grata for a while.
Other than that, got into a conversation about homophobia in the military - and there were far more squaddies than me there. They were trying to not be homophobic but the military attitude prevailed. When I suggested making it a disciplinary issue to beat up someone because they were gay, they said that it would make things worse. You can't 'dob someone in' and doing so would escalate the violence. Added to which, apparently many of the 'higher ups' didn't care about homophobia because they didn't agree with people being gay. They were at a loss what to do because of the military culture (one of the guys also thought that it was bad having gay blokes in the military because they'd be trying to pull all of the blokes. Then said 'oh, but gay blokes only fancy other gay blokes don't they'. Was at a loss as to where to start). Military sounds hideous - like school but the bullies have access to guns.
All in all a somewhat challenging night where I was mostly in the wrong. But I did get to drink some Bollinger and meet some nice people too.
A while back I was wittering on about a fantastic writer who submitted a piece to Cliterati. I passed on her details to a few people I know. She got picked up by a fab agent I mailed.
Her first piece was published in yesterday's Guardian. She's going to be doing a column for them. I feel all warm and fuzzy inside. And, as I said before she ever got picked up, read her stuff. It's ace.
It's now 5 days since I went to the Halloween party using a Lush glitter ballistic to make myself all sparkly. I have a bath ever day. I even buff myself with a Body shop mitt (cos I don't want to get dry and wrinkly skin). But has the glitter gone? Has it fuck! John is covered in it and he didn't even use the bloody thing.
I've washed the bath (twice) using industrial strength cleaner (Well, Jif. It's not Cif. It never will be. Just like Opal Fruits make your mouth water in a way that Starbursts never will. Although Marathons were always nasty.)
But I digress. What the hell are these bath balls made of. Whatever it is, NASA should be investigating because it's clearly indestructible. Lush glittery things. Just say no.
But I still love the rest of their stuff.
Had a meeting today about the script I'm writing. Went surprisingly well. Got a fair few tweaks to make but less than I was expecting - mainly formatting and cutting rather than rewriting. Will still be a good couple of days work but that's cool.
Got home to find an email through about another piece I've written saying 'broadly liked it, please tweak x, y and z but no worries, this is a hard genre to spot on first time' - and I didn't even know the person concerned so it's clearly a lovely editor. I was pleasantly surprised - thought it would be 'get it spot on first time or fuck off'.
Of course, this means that (yet again) I'm up to my ears in writing. But that's a good thing.
Almost as good as sending out the invoices.
I hate Jocas. Just when I thought I could sleep, she adds this download to her site. It's a 'guess the children's programme from the pictures' quiz and is very annoying. And addictive - I challenge anyone to get them all without referring to friends.
She's also reminded me of Frosty the Snowman - the slushy making machine for kids that only succeeded in turning ice cubes into ice chips that then, if you added some nasty powder to, turned into an even nastier drink. And children + blades strong enough to crush ice + ice = danger + mess? Which might explain why the ice only got cut into chips rather than 'snow'.
Now the best kids toy I never had was the Play-do Barber Shop. I still want one (and a Lego Pirate Ship but I think that's about £80 which is too much to spend on nostalgia).
Oh, and Fuzzy Felt rocked in a big way.
Now it would probably have to animate/explode/talk when you put it on the board for kids to be interested.
After writing about sexual positions for two days, I've now been catching up on my other stuff - and yep, it's more stuff on sex. This time Coital Alignment Technique and Kegel exercises (writing about, not doing). Then did some sex tip stuff for Cosmo. They're looking for women to give their top tips at the moment. See this story on cliterati for all the details.
Mailed a few people about a press event on Thursday. Should be cool and groovy - cocktails and celebs (of the boy band variety who I'm sure I won't recognise. Went to a do the other month and apparently Westlife and Dane Bowers were there - hey, it was a classy event. I missed them. Am obviously gutted.)
Following on from yesterday's obsessing about toys, I'm getting into the Christmas spirit. I'm already thinking about what to make for Christmas dinner. I would blame the media/shops for already having Christmas issues/displays out but actually, it's cos I'm a big kid. Although even I was surprised to hear 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing' being piped into the hotel foyer when we were in Dublin.
I like the internet though. Am already compiling wish-lists on numerous sites so that John will be able to find something for me easily. Of course, being a bloke he has no idea what he wants. This 'I don't know' policy has previously led to him getting a leather jacket, minidisc separate, posh PDA and very expensive designer clock. This year, he can come up with an idea or he's getting a CD.
I like kids TV. To be precise, very few things are better than Sabrina the Teenage Witch on a hungover Sunday. And because of this somewhat sad addiction, I got to see all of the kids' adverts for the latest wonder toys. They are depressing.
There's some pink plastic animal shaped thing that you can whisper your secrets to and it then saves them so that only you can hear them. There's a pink plastic diary that does the same thing, apparently working on voice recognition (for only £29.99. Yeah, right) There's a version of 'Kerplunk' but with monkeys. There are several games that look really cool but would take at least 3 hours to set up (anyone remember Mousetrap?) And there's the usual array of weeing, pooing dolls. But almost all have some pseudo AI element so that the kids don't have to use their imagination. Oh no, the doll will do that for you. Along with delivering the appropriate advertising messages.
Anyway, it got me thinking about the toys of my youth. There was the Weebles treehouse. As anyone of a certain age can remember, Weebles wobble but they don't fall down. (Nor, as John said did they break if you threw them against the wall in frustration) Now, aged four, I really liked Weebles. We couldn't afford brand name toys but, after endless requests, my mum saved up for ages to get me a Weebles Treehouse.
The main reason I wanted it was the lift. In the adverts, you could clearly see Weebles going up and down in the lift by magic. At no point, did you see someone winding a handle to make them go up and down. And yet, when the treehouse, paid for by my mother sweating blood (OK, her job wasn't actually that grim but she worked really hard to get it) arrived, did the lift move by magic? No. I was four. The advertisers lied.
Although I still hadn't learned my lesson when she got me a 'Girls World' (dismembered head you could smear with make-up that had 'genuinely growing hair') from a jumble sale. No, the first time I cut its hair it didn't grow back. She was robbed.
The coolest toy from my youth? Packets of Walkers crisps. You ate the contents, put the bag in the oven, inhaled noxious fumes and took the shrunken bag out of the oven to turn into a key ring. Then they changed the stuff the bags were made of so that didn't work any more.
It traumatised me far more than the sucky Weebles treehouse.
Looks like I'll be spending a lot of time on Yourmovingguide. Apparently, it's got links to get flats, jobs and even friends (! Do people really advertise saying 'I want to be your friend?) in Dublin. Will be scouring it thoroughly. Also, need to find a good hairdresser there. Any tips gratefully received.
I always get a bit weirded out when people go into too much personal detail on their blogs, so I'll keep this brief. Period pain sucks. Who the hell decided that the whole being a woman thing should be so sucky?
I did read an interesting analysis of PMT the other day. Apparently, some scientists think that women get it to 'chase off' blokes who haven't impregnated them that month. Would make sense particularly given that me and most of my girlie mates didn't start getting PMT till our mid twenties - prime baby-making age. Is a tad unfair, particularly given that some of them don't even *want* babies. On the plus side, it gives a good excuse for excessive chocolate consumption, watching shite films and being all shouty.
Off to drink some gin. Doctors may not recommend it but when it comes to curng period pain, nothing beats ibuprofen and gin.
Went to a fab party last night. It was a mate's annual Halloween Party - and as usual, everyone had to wear costumes. I settled for the vampire outfit that I wore last year but added more accessories and make-up to show I was making some effort.
Decided to give my boots a second chance, dug out some black lace gloves I was given for my birthday and used a glittery bath ball that I got for Christmas. OK, technically vampires don't glitter but it's better to be a glittering vampire than a glittering bird in a suit.
Have a feeling the glitter is here to stay. Despite attempts to remove it, I still keep catching glimpses of glitter on myself (and my bloke). Be warned, stick to the bath melts instead, particularly the Dreamtime one which smells gorgeous, if you don't want to glitter forever.
The boots were less painful than last time. Then again, I couldn't feel my toes when people stepped on them so we're still not talking the best boots in the world.
My bloke was going to go as a vampire too. He got his suit on and then learned that the white make-up we'd got was rubbish. It kept sliding off and nothing would make it stick. He refused to let me darken his eyes or give him red lips with the plea 'Don't make me look like a girl.' We settled for him carrying a tube of (fake) blood figuring that he could always cover his face in it if need be.
He didn't but it came in useful for adding extra horror to a very foxy witch's outfit. The blood ended up trickling down her cleavage, thus (further) dragging every bloke there's attention to her chest. Don't blame them for looking to be honest. Had long conversation with her. Turned out she's a surgeon and so we had suitably Halloween-y conversations about cutting people up, then moved on to the usual topics of life, sex and men.
There were loads of wild and wonderful costumes on display. The hostess was a very fetching Drusilla from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. There was a nurse with blood-stained uniform (made all the more disturbing because the person wearing it really is a nurse), a vicar with devils' horns, a variety of monsters and several masked movie serial killers.
Interesting mix of people; roughly half media and half medics. Spent ages chatting to a lovely gay couple. One of them wants to be a writer and thinks he's got a good screenplay in him. Given some of the stories he was telling us (think sex, drugs n rock'n'roll then add some more leather) I can well believe it. Invited them round for dinner. Also invited a lovely Northern Irish psychiatric nurse, the surgeon/witch and probably some more people too.
Can tell it was a good night because I only realised the time when I was in the cab home. Rather than the 1am I was expecting it to be, it was 4am. Felt very bad for the hostess after that, particularly given that somehow the party had descended into cabaret tunes being sung (not by me. I wasn't *that* drunk). A top night out. Such a good night that today has been less than productive, entailing me lying on the sofa, switching channels on the TV and eating. Ah well, can always work tomorrow.
I'm feeling proud of myself. In the last couple of days I've written 7,500 words for the script and basically finished it - well, the first draft. Got a meeting next week to story-board it which should be fun. I like learning new things and this'll be a first for me. I've written radio scripts in abundance but video scripts are a whole new format again. The learning curve is steep but enjoyable.
I've got so much on at the moment. Strangely, the more blogging I do, the easier I find it to write for work. My average amount of (paid for) words per day has increased massively. Guess it's like exercising any other part of your body - the more you do, the more you can do. Glad that I'm keeping my brain fit at least. Although walking everywhere in Dublin was good for toning me up so I'm planning to walk more in London to keep everything firm.
Off to a Halloween party tonight. Have to wear a costume and have no idea what to wear. Wore my slut dress and slicked back my hair, paled my face (further) and went as a vampire last year but don't think I can wear the same thing twice. Then again, we did get quite drunk so maybe everyone will have forgotten.
I'm writing a piece on sexual positions at the moment. As part of my research I'm re-reading the Karma Sutra and The Perfumed Garden. I'd forgotten how good they are - although not necesarily for the reasons you'd think. The Perfumed Garden has a chapter on 'Men who are to be held in contempt'. It includes any man:
Who'd have thought it - a 15th Century sex text being the earliest incarnation of Cosmo.
Sadly, 'women who should be held in contempt' are 'prolific in talk' and have large feet. Being garrulous and having size sevens, I guess that's me. Damn.
Anyway, as part of the sexual positions piece, I need some vox pops so if you can be bothered, please add a comment about what your favourite sexual position is and why.
Type a name, thing, place or time into Googlism and it will generate a list describing what that person/thing/etc is. There are only two descriptions if you type in my name.
"Emily Dubberley is the editor of http"
and
"Emily Dubberley is trying to get the word cliterati into the oxford english dictionary as a positive alternative to the word slut."
Being the editor of http - I've clearly got a bigger job than I thought I had.
Some of the answers are surreal and almost poetic:
"Midnight is madness for eager terps amid expectations baltimore sun"
"Noon is quite simple"
"Banana is probably the most innocent of all fruits" (as opposed to those corrupt apples, I guess)
Strangely enough, Bill Gates is described as satan in many different ways.
I was glad to see that "Cliterati is not an Italian sports car for women"
I really must stop playing on the site though. I'm feeling quite pleased with myself cos I've written 5,000 words of paid work today (and I wrote 5,000 words of novel when I was on holiday) But that's still no excuse for arsing around on a silly site all night.
