There are so many ways to tell a woman that you find her attractive aren't there? One of them seems to be to write to an agony aunt like myself about having a small penis. Yes indeed, it turns out that the guy who I called Gordon now claims that he was just having a laugh when he wrote to me. I'm not so sure...
Yesterday he wrote:
Hi, I was curious as why you picked the name Gordon? It’s OK I can live with that! Unlike my puny penis. Your post was quite funny by the way but I’m not coming to you for advice again!! I know that may hurt you somewhat but I feel you should be more considerate. PS my penis is 4.4 inches! I measured it wrong owing to the fact it is banana shaped!
Hi Emma, or can I call you Lucinda? I love that name! If you’d given me good advice on the puny penis problem I was going to bring another problem to your table! How, as a short man [approx 4ft 8] do I make myself more attractive to women? But in hindsight I think I’d be scarred for life with your response! You’d probably tell me to join a circus where I’d meet equally sized challenged ladies?
Hi Emma, the other emails before were a piss take! The reason? My best buddy died recently[cancer] and he wanted me when he was gone to take the piss out of the materialistic society in which we live! I didn't realize at first but your site is a piss take! He (Aron) would be laughing his head off right now! especially at your blog entry which was very funny.
I replied: I'm afraid you've lost me...how is writing an email about having a small penis taking the piss out of our materialistic society?
I reckon your penis is small or you wouldn't have written thanks for nothing!
The penis is the ultimate symbol of the male ego! If you look back at history it always has been! the obelisk type of building is a representation of that! The materialistic attitude and male ego are the same thing.
Er, right. How big is your penis then really? By the way how old are you?
Hi Emma, I suppose you would not belive me if i told you id never measured my little fella? OK I have but I've always been drunk when the moment of truth came! it was 6 sumthin or other i think lol! im 26 years of age! im studying biomedical science at uni so i may be a doctor one day?! i want to be a penis doctor so i can help all the poor fuckers uv scarred 4 life! only jokin Ur lovely really?
Hmm.... I think the lady doth protest too much about it being six sumthin or other. What say you?
The E-Spot is a problem page for people who are tired of the wishy-washy pscychobabble of Dr Phil. Please email me your problem at emma.theespot@[remove]gmail.com (please say if you wish to remain anonymous). Please also note that your problem will be treated with no sensitivity whatsoever.
I thought it was pretty obvious that my problem page was a piss take, but evidently some people are under the impression that I am a really empathetic person and won't rip the piss. Okay. Whatever. Basically, this bloke, let's call him Gordon, wrote to me from the UK the other day (my initial thoughts as I read it are in brackets):
My penis is only 4.3 inches long and slim too! I know that is well below average for size but how many guys in general would you find as small as me?
[how should I know? I don't exactly put up ads on Craig's List saying: Small Dicks Wanted]
Is there any enlargement methods that are not a complete con and do work?
[I sell a penis pump on my site and two men who bought it wrote to me and said it worked but I didn't ask for pictures.]
Should I consider surgery and would they do that on the NHS?
[No and no.]
It's an issue because as far as the opposite sex is concerned I have all but given up.
Well, I assumed he was taking the mick - well, wouldn't you? I mean, the guy lives in the UK and is asking me if penis enlargement surgery is available on the NHS? Of course it isn't, I mean a small dick is hardly a matter of life and death, now is it? You don't get many 999 emergency calls from small membered guys attempting to penetrate their girlfriends. Okay maybe you do but they don't usually send an ambulance round, sirens blazing, while the operator screams: "Step on it! There's a guy in there who's a 4 point 3! Yes you heard me correctly, I said a 4 point 3! Get round there with the Penis Extender and make sure you take four strong men to operate it! Get on it! We've got to get him up to a six by dawn!"
Another factor against penis surgery is that no one in their right mind would submit themselves to it (it involves severing ligaments). In fact, there is evidence that some penis enlargement operations have caused such damage to the penis that it is difficult or impossible to ever get an erection afterwards.
So I write back, a bit pissed off:
Try the penis pump on my site. Some people claim it has helped them but don't take my word for it.
At which point Gordon blows a gasket:
I ask you some serious questions and you just refer me to an advert on your site? Thanks for nothing!
Okay Gordon, calm down. I am going to assume you are serious. And I know that some of you girls will say, "Oh, don't be so hard on him," but to these girls I will say - if you got into bed with a guy who had a penis that small, well, let's face it, you'd be appalled. Maybe you'd be nice about it and say, "It isn't too small, really," before running off into the night, but you still wouldn't want to get involved because, as they say in Devon, 'You can't stir butter with a toothpick.'
There is no real logic to this aversion women have to small willies. Fact is, you don't need a penis to give a woman an orgasm. Fingers, tongues and sex toys are all perfectly adequate and I'm pretty sure that lesbians don't toss and turn wishing their girlfriends had penises. Consequently, I'm going to guess that the reason a small penis is such a turn off is just that it's not manly, it's not masculine. So yes, Gordon, if penis enlargement surgery worked (and it may very well in the future), then maybe it should be available on the NHS.
Probably the only way to get around this problem, Gordon, is to become friends with a woman and really get her to fall in love with you before you go to bed with her, because then there is a good chance that when you whip it out she will say, "No biggie."
So my forty-one year old crazy friend Tasha is in an unusual situation in that she has her 21 year old son Jake living her, plus her five year old daughter Angie. So Jake spends most of his time smoking weed and having sex with his girlfriend Charlotte and they just leave all their sex toys lying around his room. Well, Tasha is always warning them to not do this because Angie tends to pick up whatever is lying about. And of course, yesterday, the inevitable happened.
Angie came home from school and Tasha looked through her schoolbag and found a pretty looking purple cock ring with a vibrating bullet on it. And she asked Angie where she'd got it from. Angie just made up some story about Charlotte having given her this pretty bracelet. Apparently Angie had worn the cock ring on her wrist, thinking it was a bracelet, until the teacher had looked at it and told her to take it off.
Tasha said, "I knew I shouldn't make a fuss about it, and in fact I couldn't because I'd have to explain that it was a ring that had been on her brother's cock etc. etc. So I just told Angie not to go into Jake's room again and take any of their toys or bracelets."
So funny! I expect the teacher didn't send a note home about it because it would have been too embarrassing: 'Could you please make sure your daughter doesn't bring any vibrating cock rings to school in future.'
Fact is, I feel good. I feel like Sly Stone dancing under that rainbow. I feel real good. Even the fact that a drummer from Abba - one of my favorite bands of all time - kicked the bucket this week, didn't make me break down, and don flared black spandex as a mark of respect and have a wake for the poor guy (Ola Brunkert...I know, never heard of him). I simply stayed grinning inanely. Fact is, I am insanely happy right now without really knowing why.
I am also feeling a warm glow in the pit of my guts. It's good to know that - because of me - because of my skill in crafting explosive sexual imagery, people are masturbating to my books in two countries. In England people are fiddling with their sausages, while in Germany they are manhandling their bratwursts to my highly erotic novel Lured by Lust.
The German cover is very subtle and erotic and the new English one isn't too bad either:
I wonder if Germans don't like their erotic covers quite so in their face??
I have realized that I should never have taken my mum's advice which was, "Don't write porn, it will bring disgrace onto the family." Fine mum, but sex pays. And pays. The market has spoken. Emma's porn is currently in demand in the UK and in Germany and Emma is penning porn as we speak. She is also writing some other stuff too. She is in something of a creative frenzy actually and your bookshelves should be heaving with her stuff soon.
In other news, the market spoke to literary lovely Ms. Robinson
MS ROBINSON BACK ON THE MARKET
After three months of abstinence, Ms. Robinson decided this celibacy lark was not all it was cracked up to be. She is now back in the saddle and loving it.
She says: "Ms R knows the deal right now and while it works for her she'll let it happen. There is always a trade off, no matter where you invest - long or short term. Everything we do involves some degree of speculation and right now, this seems as good a place as any to re enter the market."
MIDDY SHOWS HIS LATEST PUSSY THE CAT-FLAP
Sexy man about town Midnight Meandering has recently had a flurry of female cats purring under his expert paws. While he is delighted that he is attracting the attentions of so many purrfect pussies, he finds that the women tend to be a bit needy. Consequently, he recently had to show a lovely specimen nicknamed Fit N Forty the proverbial cat-flap. Our paws are crossed for you Middy my dear that you may have better luck in the future!
NEED CHAUFFEUR - WILL PAY IN BLOWJOBS
Saucy aussie lass Steph fears she may lose her licence and is offering a once in a lifetime offer to any man with a vehicle (a three wheeler will do). But before you start polishing up your car please note that only applicants in the Sydney area will be considered.
That's it. And now, please join me in a one minute silence for Ola Brunkert who this week met his Waterloo.
As the proud possessor of the world's weakest bladder I have done quite a survey of toilets. I am, as you may have guessed, the sort of penny pincher (or should that be bladder pincher) who prefers not to pay for urinating in a public facility. Last time I went to Harrods they tried to charge me a pound for the pleasure of relieving myself. I laughed in their faces and went to relieve myself in a less expensive vessel.
Naturally, I am one of those people who, while strolling down the street, will just wander into a pub, use the facilities, and wander out again. The barman will rarely say anything if you just act like you are going for a quick wazz before ordering some drinks (obviously you don't buy anything). This technique gets easier when you have kids because you just drag the kids into the pub and pretend it is they that have to go rather than you and no one (or almost no one) will turn kids away.
The worst toilet experience I ever had was when I once, in desperation, paid to use one of those toilets they have in London that stand on the street, are made of steel and swallow you up into their wet glistening orifices. When you enter the establishment it has been rinsed by a machine and wet clumps of toilet paper will be hanging from the ceiling. Naturally enough, the electronic door opened while I was enthroned and two teenagers saw me and cracked up. I vowed that would be the last time I would pay for the privilege of being half naked in front of two pimply youths.
Being out and about has its advantages and allows you to see many jauntily designed toilets such as this sight, which I snapped in a pub called the Queen's Legs. I caught it just at opening time.
Also, the pissoir which was called: Is that a chipolata or are you just cold?
Saddam, who, bless him, smiles even when it rains.
And two items from George Michael's private powder room:
But, alas, most of our houses are not blessed with such beautiful toilet fixtures and consequently we do not spend more than ten minutes per day in there. Why then, would one choose to spend two years in one's bathroom, as a 35 year old woman called Pam Babcock in Ness, Kansas did recently? When the police found her, her bum had become welded to the seat.
I can't imagine staying that long in a bog, even with my weak bladder and even if I was peeing into some lovely urinals like these:
But back to this woman. Her boyfriend, 36 year old Kory McFarren, told a policeman called Whipple that he took Babcock food and water and asked her every day to come out of the bathroom.
“And her reply would be, ‘Maybe tomorrow,”’ Whipple said. “According to him, she did not want to leave the bathroom.”
Perplexing stuff. I wonder what the heck she did in there all day? I mean, did she have a TV and a little gas stove to toast Smores over in there? Or what? Details are what are needed here.
“It just kind of happened one day," said Whipple. "She went in and had been in there a little while, the next time it was a little longer. Then she got it in her head she was going to stay—like it was a safe place for her.”
McFarren says she moved around in the bathroom during that time, bathed and changed into the clothes he brought her. He said they conversed and had an otherwise normal relationship— except that it all happened in the bathroom.
Doesn't sound like a particularly normal relationship to me.
Don't worry, it all ended well. Police found the woman clothed and sitting on the toilet, her sweat pants down to her mid-thigh. She was “somewhat disoriented,” and her legs looked as if they had atrophied.
"We pried the toilet seat off with a pry bar and the seat went with her to the hospital," said Whipple. "The hospital removed it. She was not glued. She was not tied. She was just physically stuck by her body."
But enough about this poor woman. She is free. The question I need answering now is, what was your most momentous bog moment? I want blocked and overflowing toilets, worst smelling toilets, sex on toilets, drug taking on toilets etc.
I'm reading a warts and all biography about Vogue Editor Anna Wintour, who comes across as quite the cold-hearted bitch. But all this is conveniently explained by, what else, the fact that she had a distant, emotionally buttoned up father. She became an emotionally frigid woman, and also dated mainly much older men who weren’t particularly like her dad in character (they were lovable rogues), but I suppose they fulfilled the emotional void left by her dad's lack of attention.
The ones on the left are from 1998 (hmm, years of hard drinking on my dad's part take their toll). On the right bad haircuts all round mum, dad, me circa 1979
The book made me start thinking about my dad, who died a couple of months ago aged 59. The cause of death was liver cirrhosis actually, no surprise there. His death leaves more questions than answers, but I don't really want to get into the whole ghastly saga between my mum and dad etc. etc. suffice to say, he wasn't around much when I was a kid and quite honestly, in some ways I am pleased he is dead, because I tried so hard to make him love me and he sometimes said he did, but he could not really show it in actions and it was just forever unresolved. I couldn't accept that he loved me but couldn't show it in the way I wanted, and it was never going to get better, it was a kind of dull nagging pain. And the other torturous thing is he didn’t really love anyone else. I mean he had this girlfriend, but he never really told me he loved her, he just told me that she understood him. Okay, so I’m kind of glad it’s over …
Also, my point is I think many times I did look for a substitute for my father’s love in my relationships with men. The strange thing is I was not really attracted all that much to older men. I think I was drawn to men who reminded me of my father at the time when I was born (when he was only twenty-one), and how I remember him from when I was a child, that is, he was attractive and had a really charming voice and manner and would even buy me kids’ books and read them to me. I remember one called ‘The Lazy Bear.’ I remember also, a few happy memories, once when my mum and dad and I went rowing in Regent’s Park. After I was about eight I stopped seeing my dad for many years, so I think he was always young in my mind even when he got old, fat and bloated.
Also, for years I used to dream about my dad, and it was always in this happy, imaginary kingdom. I don’t think he really ever really aged for me. I’ve only had a few serious relationships, but they were all those kinds of coup de foudre situations. Firstly the guy would be young or look young and have the same kind of lost yet charming expression as my dad. I’d see the guy for the first time and his smile, something inexplicable about him would make my heart contract. Even before we spoke, it was love, obsession. Those relationships were very intense and often destructive. Strangely enough, even though my husband was only twenty when I met him, it was that kind of attraction - I mean immediate - but not so heavy or destructive. He attracted me even before we spoke a word. But he doesn’t remind me so much of my dad in that he isn't lost, artistic or eccentric. So I like to think I’ve grown out of that phase of trying to find in men what I needed in my dad.
Yes, I think I have, although it's pretty hard to break out of the pattern.
Do you think that your choices in women/men is governed by the good or bad relations you had with your parents?
Well things have been rather windy around here of late. No, not because of my excessive flatulence, but simply gales and the like, which knocked down this absolutely massive tree in my neighbor’s yard. Hurrah, thinks I, because it had long cast huge shadows on my garden, causing the grass to be patchy and my roses to not bloom at their fullest. So this massive tree is now lying across my neighbor's garden, and the one next to that.
So my neighbor, Mr X, a nurse in his late thirties, rings my doorbell and says he wants to talk about what we are going to do about the tree. I have to admit that I don’t like Mr X. I suppose it might be because he often stands outside his front door in pyjamas and a jacket, smoking a cigarette and peering at everyone who passes by in a suspicious fashion. The only intriguing thing he ever did was when Mr X, a handsome black guy, started dating a very plain white woman with grey hair who looks old enough to be his gran. This romance started because she has a car and he doesn’t, and she used to sit outside his house for hours sometimes, wooing him and waiting for him to come out. I guess he figured either your stalker will kill you or you can be sensible about it and just use her for a free lift. And then she started staying the night. The lengths some people will go to to avoid buying a car.
Anyway, where was I? The tree falling down forced me to make contact with Mr X. First he blithely told me that we would be sharing the costs of cutting up and removing the tree three ways. To which I replied that the tree wasn’t even in my garden, so I would just pay whatever it cost to remove the roots and stump.
So we get a bunch of quotes. Some were like $1500, just to chop up a tree! One guy wanted to charge $800 and then said he’d charge me $500 extra just to remove the stump. I said, "I don’t get it, why so expensive, surely you just chainsaw the stump into pieces?" and he said, “You don’t chainsaw through dirt.” I didn’t ask him why not.
So Mr X, myself and the neighbors on the other side hummed and hawed about how to keep costs down. Mr X told me that he knew some alcoholic bums who would be keen to chainsaw my stump into manageable chunks. “Just give them some beer money," he said,”they'll get tanked up and chop your stump up in no time."
Now, I certainly have no objections to financing their addictions, but the thought of drunk people wielding chainsaws, well, I could already see the limbs flying, the blood squirting. Did I really want to see what havoc drunk people could cause with chainsaws? Yes of course it crossed my mind that it would make a great YouTube video. It does seem like the cheapest option. But am I really willing to risk having a severed hand left in my back yard, just to save a few quid?
And if this has whetted your appetite for blood, there's a heated discussion over at finger's place about whether going down on a woman during her period is a turn on or a turn off? I say it's no biggie. Will someone please back me up on this!
The E-Spot is a problem page for people who are tired of the wishy-washy pscychobabble of Dr Phil. Please email me your problem at emma.theespot@[remove]gmail.com (please say if you wish to remain anonymous).
Yes, I want to talk about the rich today. And how they suffer. For example, imagine how you'd feel if you got a $67,000 Lexus for your birthday as this teen did.. And now imagine the shocking disappointment to find it was delivered on the wrong day. You'd be crying too, of course.
I think it's high time we had some sympathy for rich people such as Lady Jane, who wrote to me the other day in deep distress. Thankfully, this was an easy question to answer, but before you dismiss rich people as just spoilt brats with nothing to complain about, think again. Even rich people need your sympathy.
Did you know that these are the three most common forms of suicide amongst rich people:
1. Cocaine - alas many have too much money and can only buy the highest quality coke. Consequently they do not OD because the coke is not cut with floor cleaner etc.
2. Many rich women have fatal horse riding accidents. Fatal for the horses, yet, alas, the ladies are usually quite unharmed.
3. Car crash in daddy's sports car under the influence of drugs/drink.
But did you also know that many rich people are too proud to just kill themselves and suffer in silence. And if you think you can help Lady Jane, do go right ahead, but I think I've got this one sewn up.
Dear The E-Spot,
I am 26 and thoroughly fed up with the rut of unhappiness in which I've been stuck for a long time. I believe a lot of my troubles stem from the fact that my parents did almost nothing to prepare me for life after school.
Having vast sums of cash can stir great depths of guilt, unworthiness and resentment. I was pushed through a boarding school, where I was badly bullied. My father gave me no encouragement in the one thing I loved, horse-riding. I was totally unprepared for what came next - a large amount of money in a trust fund and no advice about what to do with it.
I feel very angry with my parents, particularly my father. Their inability to talk about money was a major factor in their divorce.
His unspoken view is that it is desperately vulgar to discuss money, while my mother let him make all the financial decisions.
Since graduating from university, I've had a series of pointless, badly paid jobs, interspersed with some volunteer work for charities, while living between my parents' homes.
I think it's good for me to be employed but, since I don't need the money, there is no motivation for me to stick anything out.
I suffer from severe anxiety attacks, mood swings and bouts of depression. I have tried various therapies, but I refuse to take any medication. I don't want to surrender ownership of my emotions to some pharmaceutical company.
I feel there is no one I can talk to, though I sometimes ring the Samaritans. Because I have not actually earned my money I have no concept of its worth, and I feel like my trust fund manager is a fire-breathing dragon.
I would like to make a home of my own, but if I spend my money on a house it would mean having to forgive my father and be grateful. I feel locked in a cycle of despair. If you could give me just a few nuggets of impartial advice I would be immensely grateful.
Dear Lady Jane,
While I sympathize with your plight, I'm going to go all Eastern on you. It's pretty obvious that the burden of having too much money lies heavily on your Prada-clad shoulders. It's also equally obvious that, as Buddha once said, "the only way you will find enlightenment is by giving away your worldly goods and living a life of meditation and wearing only a hair shirt." If you are still living in your house in Chelsea, that's fine, just move out and live in a dog kennel at the end of your garden and let your six storey town house be inhabited by the homeless. You will feel much better immediately!
I know, I know, you're wondering what to do with your cash. Well, let me save you a huge amount of bother. Send the whole huge cheque to me at The E-Spot, PO Box 4567, New Delhi, India. It will be put to good use.
In forty years, we will be dating Malebots and Fembots, even going so far as to marry them. So says David Levy, author of Love and Sex with Robots. The Evolution of Human-Robot Relationships. To which I say, sure, your own brand robot may well be available at your local Wal-Mart within our lifetimes, but will anyone want to buy him (or her)?
Admittedly, I did once sing the praises of a product I had invented, the Robolover, which will, once developed, bankrupt the makers of vibrators, the producers of Prozac, and even the manufacturers of Dunkin Donuts, due to the Robolover’s ability to perform with a level of technical finesse equivalent to Michael Jackson’s mastery of the moonwalk. Oh yes, once the Robolover’s finished moonwalking you to ecstasy you will be ready to face real life and yes, even your husband. But to be frank, I really never saw the Robolover as a replacement for a human, more as an adjunct.
Levy however, reckons that robots will show us forms of lovemaking we’ve never seen before and that, additionally, we will also love these robots as if they were people.
But before you laugh too loudly at the thought of saying “I do” to a robot, just think at how people laughed at the predecessor of the Rabbit, the pedal operated female masturbation device which engineers developed in Leipzig in 1926 (I can’t quite get my head round how you can pedal operate anything while you are in the throws of ecstasy, but still).
A Dutch Wife
Looking back, people - okay men - have always lusted after inanimate female substitutes. Dutch seafarers would take handmade leather dolls with them on long trade journeys. Consequently, in Japan, sex dolls are still called Dutch Wives. These days the tradition of sex dolls is carried on by the Japanese company Orient Industry, which creates perfect replicas of Japanese womanhood (see below).
For those of us who live in the US and have nothing better to do with $6500, you can buy a Real Doll which you can order in several variants with breasts up to a size 36H. There is also a male variant called Charlie who has a detachable penis (my husband could not understand why one would want to detach the penis and I was too chicken to email customer services).
Charlie, the male variant of the Real Doll line. My worry is, what happens if the dog runs off with his detachable penis?
All pretty sexually inadequate, because the doll just lies there like a lump of plastic. Taking it further, a crackpot called Hiroshi Ishiguro has created a new Robot woman which, he claims, has human reactions. Apparently, she looks like she’s breathing and she reacts when you touch her:
Okay, okay, I accept that in forty years robots may be able to have physical reactions like humans, but you will never be able to replicate emotions in a robot, and surely that’s most of the reason why we have sex with other humans, for that fleeting sense of connection.
Also, if robots do become our lovers and partners, I’m pretty sure there will be all sorts of new ethical problems. Like, is it okay for me to sleep with your robot lover while you are out and do I need to inform you? After all, this is only a machine. Or can you sleep with a human behind your robot wife’s back?
Basically, I think the whole thing about marrying robots is daft. I am still waiting patiently for when robots are created that can clean houses, cook fantastic meals, give massages, and generally take the slave role in life.
I do not believe I could ever marry a robot. But never say never. What about you? What would you like a robot to do for you?
Well, I was quite excited to be listed the other day on the internet version of the Guardian, which described my blog as:'The diary of a mother of two girls - and a collector of photographs of semi-pornographic root vegetables.' For the record, I do not have a collection of such photos, I just did one post about this topic. Or maybe two. I certainly do not have a fetish for attractively shaped vegetables. No, I don't.
In any case, thank you Guardian. That makes me feel a lot more interesting than I actually am. But if the worst thing I have ever done is fondled is a root vegetable, then so be it. (Question: does it constitute an affair if the thing I like to fondle is a Swede?)
Speaking of Swedes, I went round to my Swedish friend Karl's house yesterday. He had invited John, the kids and myself over for dinner. I asked him several times to confirm the invitation, because last time his lovely lady wife Bella invited myself, the kids and my mother round for dinner, Bella served us macaroni and cheese made from a packet. I laughed hysterically and said, "That's the kids taken care of. Now where's ours?"
At this point, Bella and my mother had gone off and were smoking a joint and giggling out on the deck, so I realised, tears in my eyes, that there was no more food forthcoming. I opened the fridge. Empty. So I tried to eat the macaroni. It was disgusting. Bright orange and powdery.
Maybe you will think me harsh, but I call packaged macaroni and cheese a crime against food. Bella used to be a model and so I think she got used to not eating. And she said that once she married Karl, she decided "Never to start cooking so he wouldn't get spoilt." The only thing I've ever seen her eat at home is cereal. But luckily Karl is a good cook, so when we went round there yesterday he had made us quite a feast.
I have gone round for ghastly dinner invitations in London, to find the hosts still in bed having a nap and then they'd get up and you stand around for three hours while they 'knock something together.' But my worst food experience was maybe a time I had a boiled heart at a friend's house, or maybe the packaged macaroni. However, I'd be quite interested to know if any of you who were actually invited to dinner were served anything worse than packaged macaroni and cheese.
In my opinion, me loving and fondling or photographing a few root vegetables is really no crime at all. The real crime is that macaroni and cheese packets are sold for anything other than to coat your insides with orange radioactive waste.
Who am I? Displaced Londoner now living in the States with my two little girlies and long suffering husband. Co-author of hilarious parenting book Cocktails at Naptime www.cocktailsatnaptime.com
My mom's an Austrian, my dad's a Brit, which makes me a Britaustrian, or possibly an Austrish?