Exorcising the Demon
with Duct Tape

It's been a while, but I thought you might enjoy an update on what my life is like in London. I should apologise in advance if any aspects of this message offend. I think, on careful inspection, there should be something in the following to offend most anyone. Please note that almost all names have been changed and some (if not most) of what is related here might be exaggerated or, indeed, completely made up. Believe what you want to believe.

Vicki and I live in a shared house in North London. The landlord and his partner live on the ground and lower floors. Vicki and I have a fairly large room on the first floor and share the rest of the house with four others.

The best thing about the house is that there is a terrace on the second floor. On sunny weekends we often have breakfast out there.

On one of these sunny weekend mornings one of my housemates burst out onto the terrace as Vicki and I were having coffee. Her name is Gwen and she was drunk.

"I am pissed on champagne!" she announced.

Gwen is a bit short, more than a bit buxom, and very jovial. She is (in her own words) the kind of girl who'll "always be the one drinking 5 pints and burping the national anthem at the end of the night".

However, she is not a patch on her friend Shirley. Shirley makes Gwen seem quiet. Shirley is loud and fun and perhaps a bit of a nutter. She is one of the most noticeable people I have ever met, not the least because of her cleavage.

Shirley tends to wear low cut halter tops and pushup bras. I always find there is a moment of blindness whenever I enter a room containing Shirley - a sudden shock of searing white light and an awe-struck mental discombobulation while my brain shrieks, "My God! What are those glistening snow-capped peaks!" It lasts a fraction of a second and then subsides and I spend any further interaction with Shirley staring fixedly at her left nostril.

Shirley's breasts became even more distracting when my wife told me that one of her nipples is pierced by a curious tiny black onyx dumb-bell. The nipple I refer to here is Shirley's. I hope that I would notice if Vicki ever got anything pierced without it being pointed out to me.

Despite her rather prominent assets, Shirley had been going through a rather dry period as far as intimate companionship goes. There are few secrets about Shirley's life as you may imagine.

That morning, however. Gwen announced that the dry spell had ended and the hills of Shirley had had their first nourishing rain in 18 months.

"Is that why you've been drinking champagne?" Vicki asked.

"Only incidentally," said Gwen. "I got a call from Shirley yesterday begging me to come sleep over at her place."

"But I thought she had company last night."

"Oh, my goodness, no. That was the night before. Last night I had to go over to help exorcise the demon.

"Shirley called me in a panic because she couldn't bear to sleep in that bed with the memory of what she'd done," said Gwen. "She was in such a panic on the phone. She said she was in total shock because she didn't remember him being such a fat bastard. She told me, 'I think he might be a sumo wrestler, and I think we might have broken the bed.'". At this point Gwen had to sit heavily down on the little wall running around the terrace and laugh into her knees. "They broke the bed!" she repeated.

"Ten slats." Gwen sat up and held up her fingers spread wide. "Ten!" she said.

"We took two of them and broke them up into splints to fix the other eight. We had to wrap them up with duct tape. Otherwise we would have been rolling into each other in the middle of the bed all night.

"And then, this morning, we celebrated with champagne in bed. And now I'm drunk. It's great. I think everyone should start the day with champagne."

When we saw Shirley a couple of days later, she was eager to confirm the story.

"It was amazing!" she said. "By the time morning came around he must have put on 3 stone in weight. I'm sure he was quite slim when I met him in the pub. He must have snuck out in the middle of the night and raided the fridge."

"Did you really break the bed?" Vicki asked, always one to get straight to the facts of the case.

"Too right! But Gwen and I fixed it up all right. It makes me a bit nervous some nights. I'm afraid I might sink down into a big pit I can never crawl out of. But I'm not too worried. I have taken a solemn vow never to have sex again as long as I live in that house." Shirley held her hand up to emphasise the point. "I'm hoping to move as soon as possible," she added.

Sadly, Shirley wasn't the only one looking for new digs and Gwen has now moved out of our house. It's been several weeks since I've seen either her or Shirley. Gwen has been replaced by a small, mild-mannered Scotsman who has yet to reveal the sexual misadventures of any of his friends. Nor have I ever heard him burp the National Anthem.

In any case, I hope this snapshot of our home-life has helped give you a clearer picture of what we're up to in this historic city.

Vicki is now living with me in London. Yes, the country estate in Lancaster is no more -- sad, really. She is working on her thesis and I've recently signed a permanent contract as Development Producer with the BBC. I've been granted a work visa good until 2004, and we should have a visa sorted out for Vicki for the same duration shortly. So things are pretty secure for the time being.

By the way, we're coming back to Canada for Christmas. We fly into Edmonton on Dec. 14; spend the 18 to 20th in Canmore; are in Victoria from Dec. 27 to Jan. 3; and fly out of Edmonton back to London on Jan. 5th.

Cheers.