Birthday Present

There are pizza crusts across the floor. The central heating has been left on all night. I'm secretly pleased. It's freezing. Not replacing the ageing heating unit this year may have been a mistake. What's with the weather, it's suddenly artic cold in Melbourne. I light a fire. Stuff the environment. Missy lays in front of the orange flames, like she's been on a Machiavellian banquet. Cats do not come with the gene of the shame or guilt variety.

I grind beans. Shivering in the kitchen. I make coffee.

I've got to go and buy Nicholas a birthday present. Twenty seven, years old. I've got all day. Ah! I'm so shit at buying presents. I'd cave and buy him a big bunch of flowers, except, I think, I've done that in previous years. Drat!

I'd like to buy him underpants, the ones with the Superman logo on the front. Apart from being, quite possibly, the handsomest man I know, really pretty masculine - dark hair, piercing blue eyes, beautiful smile - father Italian, mother Australian - according to his boy friend, he literally has the todger of the proverbial horse. Tim swears it's a monster.

I'd like to see Nicholas model the underwear. That adorable smile, those thick hairy legs, that sexy, solid arse, that big... he'd be embarrassed, he'd blush. Adorable!

Of course, Tim wouldn't let him. He keeps Nicholas well in check.

So, what else? No flowers, no underwear? Must mean chocolates.