When on holidays you make multiple concessions regarding your usual habits or the choices that you might make. For instance, you don't eat the same types of food or control the portions as you might otherwise do and you most certainly don't save your pennies or yell at bus drivers for the harsh breaking that smears lipstick all over your face. You deal with all the little nuisances because you're having an amazing time.
The Cockney and I are sleeping in the spare bedroom at the parental's house; two single trundle beds of varying height and size pushed together to complete a rather hazardous sleeping arrangement when attempting to touch one another.
Most nights we're both happy to contemplate sleep, other nights we try to embrace via a tentative finger hold over the two mattresses or a foot lock via the bed sheets. Last night we attempted the impossible; ninja sex.
At precisely half past the hour we had finished, semi-satisfied and delighted that the bed springs had resisted the temptation to groan in protest or the timber slats creak with displeasure. The only problem was ... how and where to dispose of the rubbery evidence of our tryst.
You see, in the UK, they recycle everything and thus the rubbish is eagerly sorted into various piles by the household owner for fear of massive fines--undoubtedly this would have included our ninja remains so we stashed it in my handbag for future disposal outside of the prying eyes of the parentals.
Picture this; the next day we were escorted on a private tour of the house of parliament and the prime minister’s residence complete with full security checks. As my handbag loaded with sexual aftermath passed repeatedly through the scanner with guards smirking and pointing, I was waiting to be questioned, quartered and then killed.
Needless to say I managed to escape unharmed but The Cockney’s DNA is now swimming around somewhere under parliament house---my opportunity to dispose of our rubber package, flushed at the very first opportunity.
Lesson learned; no more ninja sex!