Basic Jagged Fatal Liaison

My Dear Princess Normal & Dear Fellows,

"We're not doing anything this weekend, are we?"

This question from Er Indoors. She had been looking forward to a lazy weekend all week, and who was I to deny her?

This was last night. She'd just come in from drinks with The Hippy.

But anyway, her social engagements taken care of, I decided to indulge Er Indoors and we have done eff all squared today except watch movies. I should add that I am not proud of us. There were no films with subtitles, or Oscar-winners, or socially responsible films or even good films watched.

I don't want to say any more. Gary Busey and Wesley Snipes may have featured in our viewing schedule. I've said too much.

Er Indoors and me love trashy movies. Especially action films. Yesterday she was telling me about a South African doctor she was working with, 

"DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY!" she said and we both cracked up. And if that means NOTHING to you, then your 1980's action movie education is sadly lacking*. 

But when it gets to evening time we love a thriller. Right now we are watching "Basic Instinct". Do you remember the fuss about this film at the time? All because Sharon Stone flashed her special secret lady place at the camera? It all seems so quaint now. 

"It's a shame they don't make films like this any more," said Er Indoors. I know what she means. Back in the day there were loads of thrillers like this. All about broody Michael Douglas or glamorous Kathleen Turner or filthy Dennis Quaid or sultry Ellen Barkin having rude sticky adult fun all over the house in front of windows without net curtains, and then murdering people. I miss that. 

No-one ever really had sex like those people. They managed to be RUDE while still looking cool and seductive and while Kenny G played saxophone in the background. They even sweated in a glamorous way. And they never did that thing where you stick together and you make a FAAAAART noise. And they never accidentally twanged a condom in their face. And they never fell over in their hurry to climb out of their knickers. And the cat never came to Have A Look right in the middle of things.

But still. There was that whole "being horribly murdered" thing. On the whole, I think we regular people had it better. And while I may have traumatised the cat, I never had to flash my bits at Michael Douglas neither. 

I do hope they ran a Dettol towelette over her chair in the interview room after. Or even just a quick wipe with a damp sponge. 

S.

* Here it is. And it goes without saying SPOILER ALERT.