Sudden Kitten Death Syndrome

The worst sign, I always say, is when all your fantasies suddenly become very, very simple - almost innocent - in nature; when the idea of a stolen kiss, a hot hand on a waist or an accidental moment of nudity is enough to fuel whole mad sprees of the kitten-killing sin.

Bad Rainbow

Black-winged passions are circling like vultures above my whimpering sanity.

Noooo! quails my fearful heart, Noooo, please! Not this again! And not him! Not this man! I DON'T WANT to want him. I wanted all THIS sort of business to END. I wanted to move on, to mend my ways, to learn from past mistakes, to turn over new leaves, dance to new tunes and all that other crap. Oh why did I have to go and talk to him again when I knew I should be keeping my distance? And whatever gave me the ludicrous idea that I would be able to stop myself from flirting with him? Oh why didn't I just do something useful last night instead: whittle spoon rests for OAPs; knit egg cosies for soldiers?

Oh God, fuck the egg cosies: I want him, I want him, I WANT him.

Hm. Ok. Let's just give this a few more days. Let's focus on the fact that it would be very stupid of me to give in to this attraction. Let's focus on what a wholesome, admirable, sensible paragon of a person I had decided to try to pretend to be. Let's focus on the fact that Santa might be watching. Santa would not like me to commit such folly... Hm. Actually... now that I'm having this serious little talk with myself, it suddenly strikes me that it was a little unwise of me to have sent him that e-mail just now. The one that said, "In quandry. Have purchased new socks. Can I get away with horizontal stripes? Please advise."

Hm. And it occurs to me just now... yes, yes, of course - oh God, how blindingly obvious it all becomes... that I really ought to have just described the socks to him. I really ought not to have so thoughtlessly attached this visual aid.



I mean, it's a nice picture of the socks in question, of course, but you can see how it might be misconstrued, though, can't you?

Oh bad, bad, innocent, foolish Zora!

The Lovers' Medium

I know for a fact that my eyes cannot be focussed in the throes of passion. In a state of rising arousal, I would find it increasingly difficult to, say, read the time off a clock. By the time the first touch meets my skin, I'd have difficulty even locating the clock itself from which I was to read it; and on the pre-climatic plateau, I daresay most of the larger appointments and furnishings in the immediate locale - be it wardrobes, rows of filing cabinets or a flock of curious sheep - would likewise have all but vanished from my view (though this is, naturally, not something I can ever recall attempting to verify).

And yet, paradoxically, I also know for a fact that, in the throes of passion, my eyes focus on my lover with ease. I can locate his pupils in an instant and gaze deep into his eyes, I can see and marvel at all the small and fascinating features of his face and his body. How can this be so?

Another thing that strikes me is how different a lover looks to me once my desire has been enflamed. I don't mean to say that he doesn't look like himself. If the Honey Monster were to press himself against me and capture a nipple between his fat, fluffy fingers, I would not look up to discover myself gazing upon the head and torso of, say, a wiry Tony Tiger or a rugged "Brains" the Weetabix. But what would happen is that I would look up and see an impossibly golden, celestially sumptuous and altogether captivating version of the dangly-armed, cereal-fixated fluff ball - bathed, as it were, in the softening glow of my heated gaze. This has often made me wonder about the nature of arousal and how it influences - indeed hoodwinks - our senses.

I have a theory. I believe that when we look at the face and body of a lover through a state of arousal, we are not actually seeing them with our eyes but with our minds. What we see is not exactly, or not quite, that which is before us. It is a beguilingly realistic illusion dredged up from subconscious memories, closely based on what we already know our lover looks like, yet smoothed and subtly transformed to pander to our erotic wishes.

When people ask what the great connection is between Polaroids and eroticism, we all have a plethora of points to make: the privacy of home-development; the playful spontaneity of the act of capture; the sensuousness of two people holding the fresh image in their hands, their bodies close, their fingers brushing; the physicality of the Polaroid experience; the way that the anticipation of watching the development mimics foreplay; the subsequent function of the Polaroid as a kind of keepsake - a physically tangible witness to and relic of treasured moments from the past. It is true that all these characteristics make Polaroid the perfect medium for intimate photography. But I feel that there is another important connection here - one that is not quite so often made. It is this: we all look a little different on Polaroid - exactly like ourselves, and yet somehow softened, somehow luminous, somehow subtly transformed. You may say that this is a physical impossibility, but I believe that when you take a Polaroid of your lover, you do not make a physically accurate, visual record of the person before you. I believe that the lens actually works back-to-front, and that what you get is the image your mind is creating of that person as you look at them through eyes that are filled with passion. Polaroid and only Polaroid can do this.

Little Princess Angelpig

Now if you'd asked me early last year whether I'd ever had sex in the most expensive hotel in town whilst bound from head to foot in pink wool, wearing angel's wings, a princess tiara and a pig's snout, I'd have probably said something like, "Why certainly not, you beastly and fascinatingly surreal pervert. Where ever do you get such notions from?"

Which is a totally different response to the one I would give you if you asked me the very same question today.

Not that you would, of course...



... but what a fun fact to start the year with.

Self-Portrait as a Work of Art

It's a peculiarly schizophrenic experience, being your own model, playing two totally different roles at once and switching back and forth between them in rapid succession. You play around with framing and focus, lights and exposures. Then you set off the self-timer, run into the picture and jump straight into your model role. You hold very, very still, like a statue, trying to picture how it will all look through the lens you can no longer see through, blindly trying to envision your pose and expression, trying not to sneeze or fall over or suddenly change your mind about where your knees and elbows should be.

This was an attempt to capture the feeling I have about it. It was probably the most uncomfortable shoot I have ever put myself through - including the one where I tied myself up in pink wool and hopped to the camera and back. And in the end, ironically, I didn't manage to pull it off with the self-timer (everything is so difficult with your arms snapped off). I had to engage the services of a tripod monkey.

Temptation

I came up with the best solution to the problem of temptation some years ago. Rather than waste any more energy resisting it while attempting to enjoy the dreary ersatz-satisfaction of having proved the strength of my willpower, I decided to simply announce to all potential witnesses and affected parties my express intention of indulging myself in whatever form of debauchery took my fancy. And then, of course, I consistently followed through on those promises, frequently even exceeding myself.

Not only is this solution ingenious in its simplicity, it has also produced an unforeseen side-effect: I am now renowned for my enviable willpower.

Close Your Eyes...

Santa is cümming.

(I have just deleted a whole series of revoltingly lewd double entendres at this point, you'll be pleased to know. I feel rather proud of myself.)

Here's wishing you all a creamy white Christmas. (Yes, I left that one in. Believe me, it was the most innocuous. Anyway, this beard is a little more slimming than the other one, don't you think?)

Ahem. I digress. I shall be away on Christmas travels until next year and will not be blogging again until January. So have a lovely time. And remember: be good, or be bad and write about it.

Zanta Claus, Terror of the Skies

The Inner Monkey

Dear Blog, dear dear lovely Blog,

Can you tell by the tone of my voice that I have something terrible to confess? You're right. I have. I have been a bad girl again. I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. I have sat here all morning whacking myself on the nose with the rolled-up newspaper I keep for such occasions, saying, 'Baaaaad Zora, baaaaad Zora. No!' in a deep growly voice. I feel awful.

I don't know what it is, but sometimes I feel like a kind of combination of a ringleader and a performing circus animal. Ringleader Mme Zora has high hopes of Zou-Zou the Tightrope-Walking Monkey. She makes such efforts to guide her, train her and keep her in check. Zou-Zou is a dear little thing. So promising and eager to learn. She absorbs so much and listens so attentively. She rides her unicycle up and down the tightrope in her little pink tutu, twirling her frilly sunshade. A perfect angel. And so clever, how she keeps her balance and makes it look quite easy. But sometimes Mme Zora drops off to sleep in her leather armchair and her whip drops from her hand and clatters to the floor. And that is when the monkey leaps up in a flash and rampages through the circus grounds. She throws her pretty sunshade into a puddle and ransacks the place, throwing bucketloads of confetti over the tigers in their cages, writing rude messages in lipstick on all the mirrors, filling the sword-swallower's trousers with green jelly and catapulting cream cakes at the passers-by from a big shiny spoon. Oh she's a terror.

As soon as she has done it, she begins to feel ashamed. She knows Mme Zora will be disappointed in her. But at the same time, even through her shame, the feels the impish urge to roll on her back and laugh triumphantly.

I am a BAD PERSON. Not actually evil, or unfeeling or truly vicious, but uncontrollably subversive. It requires an immense continual effort for me to function within the bounds of acceptable behaviour. I can feel myself consciously exerting my willpower over myself pretty much every hour of the day. I only say about one hundredth of the bad things I think of saying. I only do about one thousandth of the bad things I think of doing. I think I do a good job of keeping my nose reasonably clean, all things considered. But there will always be brief lapses in concentration. Nobody can watch a mischievous monkey 24 hours a day every day of their lives. Not one like this, anyway. Because my inner monkey never sleeps. It is always there, always on the watch, waiting for the tiniest momentary lapse in security to wreak its chaos. That's all it needs.

Anyway, this is what the monkey did yesterday. It wrote an e-mail to a man I had sworn – for many very excellent and important reasons – not to lead into temptation and the e-mail read as follows:

'I'm just about to leave the house, only I'm having this huge dilemma about my outfit. Could you please, please, just take a quick look at this picture, X, and tell me the truth because I don't know who else to ask: do you think this beard makes me look fat?'

And then that naughty, naughty, horrid little beast attached the following picture: