Monday, 8.15am. I am crammed on the Overground train, making my way to a boring work meeting when I am suddenly overcome by the desire to rip my husband’s clothes off.
This is unfortunate, because he is on the other side of in his own boring work meeting, and I am not going to see him for at least another 12 hours.
As the train trundles through decidedly unsexy suburban London — Peckham, Wapping, Shadwell — I try to think about decidedly unsexy things: the U.S. presidential race, tax returns, the squashed banana in the bottom of my handbag.
Load More
Yorumlar
Kalan Karakter: