Friday, 29 January 2010


So because the builder originally mis-measured for the floor tiles, I had to wait an extra two weeks for the additional four boxes to arrive from Italy.

If the floor isn't tiled, the machines can't go in, the units can't be finished if the plinths are not installed, the sink can't be plumbed if the units aren't in place, the electrics can't be done...etc etc.

Yesterday the two week wait was up - Hurrah! - but instead of four boxes arriving as ordered, only three turned up.

My left eye began to twitch.

Remaining calm and controlled, I cancelled and rescheduled the tiler, the grouter, the plumber, the electrician, the carpenters, the cleaner and the carpet man.

The missing box was promised to arrive DHL by noon today. The tiler came in at 7.50 a.m. to get started but when he opened the first of the three boxes which had turned up, he saw that these tiles were 5 mm smaller than the original ones, thereby screwing up the entire layout of the kitchen floor, mismatching the joins etc etc.

My left eye developed a flicker.

Remaining slightly less calm and controlled than before, I phone Nick at the tile shop and he said what I was thinking:

"Fucking cunts the whole lotta them! Can't they get anything right? Whaddya wanna do?"

"I want to stuff my hand down your oesophagus and rip your bollocks up through your throat" I say sweetly.

The tiler then suggested that if he smashed out some of the correctly-sized tiles he'd laid two weeks ago, he could compensate by laying the new ones this way instead of that way and the 5mm differential wouldn't be noticed. But...this would mean he would need another box because of wastage.

I phoned Nick and told him to order me another box to arrive by DHL on Monday at his expense. He laughed.

My left eye was now twitching uncontrollably like Herbert Lom in 'The Pink Panther' every time Clouseau hove into view.

The tiler lays the three boxes and finishes by 11.40 a.m.

"The extra box will be in by noon" I tell him, but of course, even if it is he can't finish today as we're still one box short.

Meanwhile, the decorator has papered the hall with my lovely new green and cream striped wallpaper. He packs up and leaves for the weekend. Admiring the one thing that's gone right, I notice that the stripes go green/cream/green/cream/green/green.

My right eye begins to flinch.

Noon becomes 3.30 as we wait for the missing 1 of 4 to arrive.

The tiler sits on a pile of rubble in the middle of what will one day be my new kitchen listening to loud Ukrainian music on his laptop which he's brought with and plugged into my socket along with his mobile phone, thereby sucking greedily at my personal supply of electricity.

At last, Nick calls to say "They've arrived!"

Just before I leave, the tiler says laconically: "I still don tink ve vill hev enuf."

I reach for the chain saw and slice his head off then realise this is counter-productive, so I glue it back on again. Luckily all these building materials are to hand.

I hare over to Camden to pick the box of tiles up. Nick places them carefully into the boot of my car.

"By the way" he says, "that other box you need...they're out of stock. They've got seconds, though. May or may not match. D'ya want them?"

I stop a passing motorist who looks vaguely foreign and ask if he has any weapons of mass destruction about his person. He hands me a Luger, an Uzi and a box of grenades marked Made in Grenada. I gun Nick down along with a couple of pedestrians then lob a few grenades into the tile shop.

I feel a little better but not much.

As I drive home, I thump into a pothole then over a bump and I hear an almighty crack from my boot.

I drive past my house and on towards the Serpentine. I speed up as I approach the bridge then turn the wheel sharply to the left and crash through the stone balusters plunging the car head first into the murky depths below.

It seemed the better option. Now I don't need a kitchen any more so they can all go fuck themselves.

Friday, 22 January 2010


I’ve got the builders in. New kitchen. Never mind Ramsay’s kitchen nightmares...what about mine??

It feels like the heart of my home’s being ripped out and thrown into the Magimix. There’s kitchen stuff all over the house. Except in the kitchen. And dust embedded all over the stuff that shouldn’t be where it is because it should be in the kitchen. Except I haven't got one.

In a desperate attempt to bring some sanity and sanitation into my horribly disordered life, I had my cleaner in. What a waste of time that was. All she managed to do was shift the dust around from one place to another.

And the bathroom! Don’t even mention the bathroom. What is it with men? Wee-wee. Bowl. What part of that do they not understand? Thank God for the ensuite.

Last Monday, my toyboy story was featured on 'Inside Out' on BBC1. All the builders watched it. It was nudge nudge wink wink all day Tuesday, never mind getting on with the bloody work.

Then on Wednesday, I had a double page spread in The Sun (not Page 3, you'll be relieved to hear - I'm a little old for that!)

And who reads The Sun? The builders. Even less work got done...

I caught one of them glancing at the back cover of Toyboy Diaries 2.

It says: "In this saucy sequel... Wendy embarks on another eyebrow-raising adventure with a man young enough to be her plumber."

Who was reading this?

The plumber.

Friday, 15 January 2010


There is something irresistibly seductive about a 19-year old youth - a firm, fit, fabulous teen teetering on the brink of adulthood. Half boy, half man, he’s like a summer wine: young, fresh, sweet on the palate and very, very heady.

And now that artist and film director, Sam Taylor-Wood and the MP Iris ‘Mrs’ Robinson, have gone public with their affairs, 19 seems to be the optimum age for the toyboy du jour – an accessory at the very zeitgeist of dating fashion.

Before I tell my story, I must ask: what about the boy? Is he the innocent victim of a ‘cougar’ (hate that word!) or is he the manipulator: a savvy kid, confident of his irresistibility, who grabs the opportunity to propel himself from a manky, single mattress onto a luxuriously large, satin-sheeted bed? And all he has to do to maintain that position is perform an act which obsesses him 24/7 anyway, which the older woman will teach him how to perfect.

My seduction by a 19-year old happened on the ski slopes of Switzerland one New Year’s Eve. Suffering from post-divorce stress, I’d taken my 16-year old daughter away on a Christmas break.

As I stepped out onto the balcony of our apartment to admire the view, I heard English voices coming from next door. I leaned over and spotted a young man standing there. ‘Just arrived?’ he asked. ‘I’m Ricky, by the way’ and he stuck out his hand.

Ricky was tall, dark and handsome, staying with his cousins in the adjoining flat. I asked about local restaurants and he suggested we join them for dinner. We had a great evening and all skied together the following day.

I thought Ricky to be about 27, certainly too old for Lily and of no interest to me. The last thing I was needed was another man. A younger one wasn’t even on my radar!

Ricky seemed confident and mature, though and I enjoyed talking to him. One night we all went out to a busy bar. I spotted a pinball machine and decided to play. Ricky sauntered over and asked if I knew how. ‘Not really’ I laughed, ‘but I’ll have a go!’

He came and stood hard up behind me. He put his arms around my waist and covered my hands with his. He began flipping the flippers, jerking me this way and that as the little ball pinged frantically to and fro. I could feel his warm breath on the back of my neck. It made me tingle all over.

I couldn’t work out if he was trying to get off with me, or just vaunting his pinball skills with me as the conduit. He was wearing a thick polo neck, black jeans and an aviator jacket. We were both getting very hot. . .

To be continued . . .