Ah my dears.

You may be shocked to learn that this svelte physique, good posture and well-preserved muscle tone - for which I am oft compared to men half my age and twice my height - do not altogether come naturally to me. No indeed, one has to work hard to maintain such perfection – and the manner by which I stay in this exquisite shape is by going for very long walks across the hills behind my house.

It was on such a walk last week that I saw pretty lady comedienne Rhona Cameron on the other side of the fence. One of her Wellingtons had become stuck in the mud and she was hopping and cursing in a most energetic manner. Well! The thought of poor Rhona muddying the bottoms of her lovely pinstripe suit trousers and having to strip them off back at home, with no man in her life, really quite inflamed me. I knew just how to sort her out.

Tools of the trade:
Perseverance
Strong thigh muscles
Good manners
A panama hat
Immac

Putting myself somewhat in the mindset of Sue Perkins I strode purposefully – mannish yet effeminate – through the long grass and hollered “You’re a Celebrity – I’ll get you out of there!” upon which Rhona laughed, and stopped struggling, just as I had hoped.

I came to the fence and paused, removed my leather gloves from my waxed jacket pocket and put them on - making sure that Rhona was watching – tight and hard one finger at a time. I pursed my lips, tensed my buttocks and stuck out my jaw: the very image of androgyny – soft but strong, elegant but powerful, a lover for all. I felt sure she would be powerless to resist.

Placing my hands on the top rung of the fence I kicked my right leg as high as it cold go in one violent, fluid motion and landed the heel of my boot squarely on top of the fence. It was then that I felt something go.

I had pulled a muscle, it transpired as I endeavoured to lift my foot a little higher and spasms of pain ripped through my thigh.

As the agony played across my face my ‘Sue Perkins pout’ was destroyed in a trice, and Rhona, much to my horror, was on her knees in the mud convulsing in derisive guffaws.

Try as hard as I might, I simply could not get my leg over and, I’m afraid dear readers, that the pleasure was all hers, the bloody lesbian.

Your friend,

N.H.