Confessions of a Lady Courier. Rosie Dixon

warmth is spreading through every fibre of my being. I sip the drink and – oooooh! It does funny things to me. The smell of Jeremy’s after shave lotion takes on an almost physical personality and my knees tremble.

      ‘Are you all right?’ There is a censorious note in Jeremy’s voice and immediately I try and pull myself together. It would be terrible if I lost the job because I could not hold my – ‘Mind out! You’re tilting your glass.’

      ‘Clumsy me,’ I say. ‘Well, here we go. Cheers, bottoms up, down the hatch! Uuum! I like your balls.’

      ‘Bols,’ says Jeremy, taking my glass.

      ‘No, I meant it,’ I say. ‘It was very nice.’

      ‘You’re the nicest thing about here.’ Jeremy suddenly seizes me in his arms and ruckles me against his chest. Oh dear. This is going to be difficult. If I resist too violently he will probably think that I am drunk and unsophisticated.

      ‘Mr Rafelson-Pig,’ I say. ‘Do you really think that this is a good idea?’

      ‘Yes,’ says my prospective employer, putting his hand up my skirt.

      This answer is not unexpected and does not help my situation very much. I have obviously got to do some fast thinking. Should I jeopardise my career by breaking free and lurching from the room that is now beginning to revolve slowly or should I make use of this opportunity to take a respite from the stream of intoxicating liquid that has been pouring down my throat? Upon consideration there seems only one thing to do. Jeremy’s long aristocratic fingers have already clambered inside my panties and are tugging gently at my minge fringe. It is better that I submit and comfort myself with the knowledge that I am doing this with my body and not my heart. My principles will not be compromised. With a vague feeling of unease I listen to the sound of someone moaning with pleasure. The unease is heightened when I realise that the person is me.

      ‘You like it, don’t you?’ breathes Jeremy, playing my passion valley as if it is a violin. His digits dart down with his slowly circling palm pressing against my furry knoll and I have to confess, silently, that, in the right circumstances, the sensation could be pleasant.

      ‘I promised you something that could beat that thing outside, didn’t I?’ murmurs Jeremy, deftly dunking his digit in my dilly bag.

      For a moment I can’t think what he is talking about. Then it comes to me. ‘Oh, you mean the statue,’ I say. ‘Where is it?’

      Jeremy draws me closer to him and brushes his mouth against mine. ‘You little wanton,’ he says. He has one hand on the small of my back and the other leaves my love cave and moves swiftly to the front of his trousers. There is the noise of a zip moving in a southerly direction and – ‘Look.’

      Nervously, I cast my eyes down and – oh dear, I now realise that Jeremy was not referring to the whole statue. He has exposed a love truncheon of quite hideous aspect. Though practically a stranger to the weapons of amorous war I have had some experience of them – when training to be a nurse and in a purely professional capacity, of course – and I can truthfully say that this is one of the largest to draw a blush from my outraged cheeks. It is exactly the same shade of purple as Mum chose for the bathroom curtains.

      ‘Not bad, eh?’ says Jeremy proudly.

      ‘Er – very nice,’ I say. Actually, I don’t think it is very nice, though I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Men’s ‘things’ never do a lot for me – I mean, of course, beauty-wise – and every other-wise. They just are not pretty, are they? I don’t mind the statues, when they’re nestling there under a tastefully arranged leaf, but fully rampant they remind me of lizards and snakes and melting candles and cabbage stalks with a couple of sprouts attached to them. Nothing that you might call romantic.

      ‘Let’s go into the bedroom and get better acquainted.’ Jeremy presses his body against mine and I wonder whether the time has come to make a stand.