Wanted

WANTED - Man to share the continuous loop of abject joy that is my life. Must like children and cats, preferably hamsters too but open to negotiation on that. Good sense of humour an absolute must, medication to counter psychotic episodes will be offered on a needs must basis. No footbore fans please, Sundays are for eating roast dinners, not watching twenty two grown men kick a ball into a net and take it out again. See also - gardening centres.

No gingers, this is due to previous experiences and not open for discussion. Apart from anything else, I couldn't have such contamination of the gene pool on my conscience. You will preferably have extensive experience in DIY and be fairly handy with large tools. Specifically, if you can build a large cage this will be a huge asset, never mind why.

If, like me, you harbour a dark desire to kick anyone opposed to paid consensual sex up and down the banks of the Clyde, rest assured this will put you to the very top of the list. If your idea of heaven is a weekend away in a secluded hotel with a hot tub and food service, superb. If however, your ideal includes a triathlon, or anything above and beyond a brisk walk, then jog on.

Please send a full length picture with your application, ideally in tight swimming shorts.

LL xx

P.S : In the interests of honesty, I have enclosed a picture depicting my demeanour any time before 12pm and also during "that" week of the month. You have been warned.

Those pesky clients

Tomorrow I head into the abyss which is - no home broadband for ten days. Counselors are on standby, I simply don't know what I will do when the ability to go onto Mumsnet and start a fight is taken away. This horrific state of affairs is because I am moving house, something I'm looking forward to in terms of the new property, but in the interim, I really wish Boy Cat would grow tired of the 'pouncing on the black sacks' game.

The run up to the move has been stressful beyond belief, I just hate mayhem, and right now my house looks like the aftermath of a particularly vicious tornado. I'm going to let you into a little secret, guess who has been keeping me afloat for the last little while, listening to me whinge and bemoan life ? Those pesky clients, that's who. Those men who routinely 'abuse and disrespect' us have come up trumps. Some of my guys have been with me for years, and it is, I suppose, quite unavoidable that a friendship develops on the back of that, particularly when you spend long periods of time together.

What I wasn't prepared for though, are the lengths these friends are prepared to go to, it astounds me that they care so much, and I feel very honoured. Right now I am the proud owner of not one but two pairs of glasses, all because one of my guys got sick to death of seeing me squint at the television and books. He frog marched me down to the opticians and made sure I had an eye test and picked up the prescription too. We're still negotiating on a hearing test, those who know me well will tell you that if there is any background noise I am stuffed, and have been known to watch people's mouths to catch what they're saying.

One of my guys has been my backbone, in terms of many forms of support, but most importantly, he has given me the self belief to go out there and speak in public, albeit rather nervously. Thank you, J.

M is a plastic surgeon, and has offered me botox injections to lift my eyebrow where it has been damaged by my abusive ex.

D is a gym bunny, he knows I really want to shed quite a lot of weight and he has offered to train me on a one to one basis, to optimize fat burning and provide motivational support too. I think that means he's going to shout at me, which will be fun, because it's usually the other way around. He's also big into nutrition and healthy eating, so he's going to show me how to 'juice' and make simple meals from fresh food. Apparently, you can cook without checking the back of a packet for the number of minutes in a microwave, who knew ?

I'm so very grateful to have a job which has introduced me to such wonderful human beings.

See you all on the other side of no broadband hell, I'll still have my iPhone so all is not lost but still, I'm using these last precious hours to google internet withdrawal syndrome.

LL xx

Masturbation and Media

As achievements go, masturbating myself into my local A & E has never really been up there on my 'top ten to do before I die', but achieve it I did. Y'see, recently it was my birthday and ever the kind soul that he is, one of my long standing clients in Belfast asked me what I would like. No contest, I asked for a Hitachi magic wand. For those of you not familiar with said device, in terms of stimulating a woman, it gets you from nought to sixty before you can say 'HEADS' - on the break during Coronation Street.

Eager as I was to try my new toy, I rushed back to my hotel room and sure enough, found that euphoria in record time. There was just one small problem, I developed a very bad headache, to the point where I thought it might be a migraine, although I've never had one of those in my life. So I darkened the room and lay down and in time it passed. Fast forward some two weeks and I'm demonstrating the benefits of a wand to a bemused client in his hotel room, rather like a late night shopping channel, naked.

With the rush of fluids and moans and all things gorgeous which go to prove that the good lord did indeed intend us to have sex ad infinitum - came the worst headache I have ever had in my life. It was at the back of my head and was pulsating, literally taking my breath away. What to do ?

As it happened I had a routine appointment with my GP several days later and gingerly raised the issue. She said she was going to consult with her colleagues and call me back, and in the meantime I was to find something to keep me amused 'above the waist', as she delicately put it. So, I threw my case into the boot of my car and hit the road for Inverness, as had been the plan. Having just reached the bottom of the A9, the phone went and it was my GP.

"Can you get to A & E as soon as possible please ?"

"Sure, I'll be back from Inverness on Thursd ...."

"No, NOW."

And so it was that I found myself flat on my back for five days, whilst they ran test after test to ensure I hadn't ruptured something or was in danger of doing so. The first day or two were great, and the novelty of having a television and a bed all to myself without -

1. 'MOM'.
2. 'MEOW'.
3. 'FIFTEEN MINUTE QUICKIES LOVE?'

...was delicious. In time though, I got so bored, I thought they were going to have to transfer me to the psych ward. Finally, on day number five, the most goddamn beautiful doctor I have ever seen in my life came to see me. I was good to go, he explained, but my stress levels were through the roof and that's what was most likely contributing to the headaches, chest pains, racing heartbeat and insomnia. (I know, I know.) Rather predictably, I phoned my Dad.

"Hola Padre, I have seen the error of my ways and am coming home. I plan on checking myself into a convent where I shall self flagellate for the rest of my pitiful existence."

"Hilarious. See you on Saturday".

So we sat, my father and I for some considerable length of time and deep into the night in his garden, chewing the fat and contemplating what needs to change. I know that ideally he'd like me to go and work in an animal sanctuary for the rest of my life, but for the moment, that's not going to happen. Nope, I'm going to have some fun.

I'm taking June until October off study completely, although I had originally planned on doubling up on modules. I'm going to let my hair down and I'm going to chill-the-feck-out. So, for those of you wondering why I have suddenly organised a group session in Glasgow, it's because I want to, it's something I thoroughly enjoy and if it goes well I will do it again.

Before I sign off, let me just say a HUGE thank you to everyone who phoned, texted and emailed after Sex on Wheels. I have no regrets about doing it at all, I think it's an important issue which needs to be addressed and I will continue to campaign as hard as I can. The only regret I have is when they filmed me speaking to a potential client on the phone and saying - 'I'm closely trimmed'. I'm sorry, but that information is not required to be known by the disco mummies, my neighbours and very definitely not my Dad. Memo to self - in future when the camera is rolling - astound everyone by simply SHUTTING UP.

LL xx

P.S : My availability diary is now done until the end of July, although subject to change. I will be in both Leeds and Bristol so do drop me an email. 'Tis about time I ventured South to see what all the fuss is about.

Activism and Angst

No-one has ever yet written "The Guide to Perfect Parenting", in principal because the perfect parent doesn't exist. Babies don't come with a Haynes manual which tells you what to do in the event of an unplanned exhaust leak which escapes the utilised protection and slowly makes it's way down the legs of your trolley and onto the floor of Asda. Or what to do when they work themselves up into such a state of temper that they bang their heads in tune to the over priced soothing baby lullaby CD you just purchased. There's no trouble shooting flow chart or help desk. Instinctively, you just know, and with that knowledge comes a solution, tailor made to every diazepam inducing incident.

But while we can all meet once a week and bitch (sorry, empathise) over coffee about our little darlings and their latest attempts to have us sectioned, in my experience it's the same subjects which arise for discussion over and over, 'Is my child showing the first signs of psychosis ?', or 'Why do they behave for every other fecker but me ?' One subject very worthy of discussion has yet to come up in our group, and it is simply this - how to instil a sense of social justice in your child. Of course, they will form their own core values and belief system, but children can very quickly become a product of their environment.

A long time ago and in an Irish kitchen far away, my Dad was preparing a carcass, when I swept in the door from school.

"Hi Dad, what's for dinner ?"

"Oh, this is just an auld mutt I found on the road, hit by a car, so I thought - waste not, want not".

I was speechless with anger, after all, our house had become known as the de facto shelter for every waif and stray. Flaring my nostrils as I do when I'm very cross indeed, I loudly declared -

"RIGHT. THAT'S IT. I AM NOT EATING ANY MORE MEAT IN THIS HOUSE UNTIL SUCH TIME AS THE ATTITUDE OF THIS FAMILY HAS CHANGED TOWARDS THE WELFARE OF ERM ... DEAD ANIMALS."

To this day I don't know how my father kept a straight face, in any event, my 'protest' lasted until the following Saturday morning when our traditional fry up was filling those flared nostrils of mine with aromas so beautiful I could stand it no longer. I slouched into the kitchen and announced - "Sure the pig won't mind anyway, he's in heaven".

Fast forward some twenty years and suddenly it befalls me to combat those highly enjoyable convivial jousts as they arise. It started one balmy evening as LP and I were watching television and some horrifying footage of starving children in Africa was being shown. Studying her little face, the wheels of cognition could almost be observed, spinning furiously.

"MAM".

"Yes sweetpea ?"

"Sure that baby doesn't have any food ?"

"No love, none."

"No juice either ?"

"No, no juice either."

"No blankies ?"

"No sweetie, nothing."

She thought about this state of affairs, long and hard before her face lit up with all the excitement of a ground breaking solution to world hunger.

"Well then her mammy should have gone to Tesco's, shouldn't she ?"

Clearly, there was a lot of work to be done. In mitigation, she was very young then and has since grown to grasp the basics, such as - the oppression of minority groups is never acceptable. She even gets the concept that one person's moral code should never dictate the sexual freedoms of a society, whether those freedoms are exercised in a commercial sense or in the privacy of one's bedroom. Quite impressive for a twelve year old really.

Less impressive was this evening's display of pre-teen plumage. I had not long returned from a long day at a photo shoot and I was tired and cranky. On entering the kitchen, there stood a triumphant boy cat, licking his chops having just enjoyed the last remaining scraps of ice cream, as offered to him in a cereal bowl.

"For Christ's sake, can we not share the crockery with the animals ? Especially when he spends the vast majority of his day with his tongue between his thighs ?"

"SHAME ON YOU. CATS HAVE RIGHTS TOO."

Yep, it's going to be a long week.

LL xx

Ankles and angst

Good evening and greetings from Inverness where I am chilling out with a bowl of room service chilli (dreadful) and my magic wand (significantly less dreadful). I'm thinking back to the day I was awarded my degree all those years ago, it was all going so well. We lined up with our parents and collected our awards, after which we debunked to the local restaurant for lunch and yet more photographs.

At 4pm, our parents made their excuses and left and we regrouped for the party to end all parties. We deserved it, we had all spent the previous six weeks surviving on diet coke and Marlboro lights, trapped in our horrid student flats. By 10pm, it had all begun to fall apart. A couple of fledgling lawyers had wandered off in search of the elusive burger van, one had gone back to a very dodgy flat for a private party and still another had fallen into the canal, by Rathmines. As for me, I was in the residual party of survivors, up the back of the pub singing loudly and having a whale of a time.

Rather typically, my friend E had just found the true love of her life, again. She was quite literally inside his mouth and it was yours truly who was dispatched to go and rescue her. In huge heels and even bigger hair, I picked my way down the sodden and darkened steps to the basement bar, before bawling at her over the loud music - "COME ON, BACK TO MINE". She gave me that look, the one which says - "I'm this close to getting his phone number on the back of a ciggy packet, DO ONE", so I went to Plan B. There were some girls on the steps, dancing side ways up and down (show girl style) to New York, New York. Well, if you can't beat them, join them is what I say. Come the very end of the song and we were really going for it, the fact that I didn't actually know any of the other dancers was by the by, in Irishland, provided you're drunk and friendly, it really doesn't matter.

I went for the bottom step and missed it in spectacular fashion, my foot went over to one side and there was a loud 'snap'. I didn't actually hear that snap, but it was politely pointed out by a lady who was sitting at a table just adjacent to my not very comfortable landing pad. I laughed out loud, ankles don't just snap, right ? Having said that, when I got to my feet, that ankle flatly refused to take the weight of my body, resulting in my getting home through a variety of carrying techniques and hopping.

By the time we got to my flat, my ankle was rather swollen, but I was reliably informed that it was just sprained, so in true Irish fashion we got on with the night and commenced strip poker. Come 4am, my ankle was turning black, and the size of a football.

"I'm not being funny girls, but I really think I've done something awful here."

"Oh give over. Put some frozen peas on it. Well, mini pizza's then."

I woke up the next day in mortal agony. I literally couldn't get out of bed, any sudden movement at all went right through my foot and caused anything from a sharp intake of breath to a muted scream.

I did what every independent twenty something graduate does in times of trouble, I called my Dad.

"DADDY, I FELL".

He came to my rescue, and sat with me in the hospital whilst they manipulated my ankle back into place and plastered it up. Cue paternal loving frown.

"Look, you'll be all right. Just get up and get on with it".

This week, I've had the week from hell in a lot of respects. I had some bad news which quite literally took my breath away, it was like a punch to the stomach. Although I'm entering a really exciting phase involving a lot of media and a total change in direction, that one phone call really took the wind out of my sails. So, I did the one thing a thirty something mother at the base of a new career and in a crisis should do, I called my Dad. Cue paternal loving frown.

"Look, you'll be all right. Head up and keep smiling. Go get 'em."

Thanks Dad.

LL xx

Saturday sleepovers

Good evening and greetings from home where I am chilling out with Le Mog having finally finished my tax return. Officially, I'm not speaking to Boy Cat. I spent most of yesterday laboriously sorting my receipts into monthly piles only for one over excited cat in hot pursuit of a fly to jump up on my desk and knock the whole feckin' lot over. I wouldn't mind, but he's not even looking suitably contrite.

I'm not long back from Belfast, where I was finishing off the documentary for Channel 4 and it was an experience to say the least. It was very stressful, not because of the crew, they were fabulous, but because in between bouts of filming I had to jump into various outfits to meet clients. Although this is something I've become accustomed to on tour, it was a new level of manic. I know that the end result will be worth it though, and I hope to challenge perceptions on sex and disability.

On a break from filming I phoned home, as is my daily custom. La Princess was full of chat, everything from, 'I miss you', to 'Can I have a tenner to top up my phone?' I was waiting for the inevitable, and in time, it came. "Can I have a sleepover this weekend ?" GREAT.

For the uninitiated, 'sleepovers' run as follows - several very grateful parents drop their little darlings chez moi, and head off in the direction of the nearest off licence or dealer, the understanding being that they snap out of their temporary delicious psychosis and be on my doorstep by 1pm the next day.

The bemusing part of sleepovers is the solid belief in the participants, that what they are about to perpetrate has never been done before. Uh huh, because parents were born aged 30. So, it's -

Creeping to the kitchen to empty the contents - check.

Sub-dividing the group into two with bitchery, with one group ending up in the hallway at 2am, hotly debating the identity of the bigger bitch - check.

Antagonising the hamster, to the point where she squeals in temper, the defence offered being - "We didn't do anything, she was just sitting there" - check.

Antagonising the cat, to the point where he scratches, the defence being - "We didn't do anything, he was just sitting there" - check.

Freaking each other out with ghost stories until someone asks to come into my bed - check.

Ordinarily, I just throw in pizza, popcorn, several bags of sweeties and then shut the door, slinking off to my own boudoir with boy cat and a good book, but this weekend I have a new game plan just ready and waiting for the inevitable onslaught.

I'M GOING TO KILL THEM WITH TWITTER.

Normally, I throw open the door at 2am, 3.30am, and 3.35am and beseech, "Girls, please ! Keep it down, we have neighbours". As you can imagine, that approach is about as effective as putting a brake on a canoe, so the new plan is simply as follows - I'm going to befuddle them with all of the new delicious terminology I've learned on Twitter.

I envision the process as follows. Throw door open, and -

11pm. - "TROPE".

12.10am - "PATRIARCHY".

12.30am - "HELEN MIRREN".

12.45am - "NICK CLEGG HAS A GREEN ONESIE".

12.47am - "SUZANNE MOORE'S TRANSPHOBIC EXPLOSION".

I reckon, that by 1am they'll either be stunned into shocked silence or they'll have had me sectioned. Either way, blissful peace awaits.

LL xx

The times, they are a-Changin'

Once upon a time, there was a man I was quite simply mad about. I'll call him D. He supported me through some very turbulent times and never stopped believing in me, even when I couldn't go to my local supermarket without someone shouting abuse at me in the car park. "I didn't know they sell hookers here now ! Is it buy one get one free ?" When you consider that D was raised in 1950's Ireland, then his support was all the more important, because it broke through every societal barrier you can think of.

"Never let these people get to you, hold your head up high. What matters is how you feel about yourself and those around you who will love you regardless." In time, came the shocking news that D was dying, he had terminal cancer and it was a matter of weeks, which very quickly became days. With a huge knot in my stomach, I went to his bed side and was truly lost for something to say. I didn't want him to see me getting upset so I smiled and asked him how he was feeling.

"I'm not afraid of dying, I've made my peace. Besides, the priest was in and I told him to put me down for everything except rape and murder". Thereafter came the explosion of maniacal laughter combined with guttural sobbing and I told him, "I'm going to miss you". His reply is something which will stay with me for the rest of my life. He said, "You may not know this but you were put on this earth to help the underdog. Be true to yourself and make sure you fulfil that promise for me".

D's funeral was hard for me, it was my first experience of death and when I kissed him goodbye as he was laid in the coffin, I thought my heart was going to physically break. I took comfort from the fact that he looked so peaceful, towards the end of his life he was in so much pain that no amount of morphine could take away the permanent frown he had. In death, he looked beautiful, so serene.

I've never forgotten D's words although it has taken me many years to work out what he meant. When D died, I was in the second year of my first degree which was law, and truly, I thought I was going to change the world. Myself and my Uni pals had an idealistic vision of challenging every law ever set into statute, but I was soon to find out that in Ireland, unless you have family in the law or are sleeping with half of the law library, getting briefs is actually incredibly difficult, if not impossible. Since I was already sleeping with half of the law library on a part time basis anyway, it seemed like a futile exercise to chase a career where every time I got to my feet I would look across the court room and be reminded of time spent on my back.

Unperturbed, I dusted myself off and went into financial services, for nine years. That went horrendously wrong in the end and I will write about it in the future, but the time isn't right yet. So the time had arrived, attempt at career number three. What to do ? I decided to go back to Uni and study, since academia has always been a part of my life and I adore a challenge. I'm still studying, and very much enjoying it too.

Through all of the changes, the upsets, the move from Ireland to Scotland and my transition from irresponsible student to semi-responsible mother, the sex industry always called me back. I've retired three times now, and not had a carriage clock yet. Over the last twelve months though, a new transition has begun. I speak to the media. I now know that I have years of experience in the sex industry under my belt and I can speak with authority against those who seek to stop what we do. Finally, I have a knowledge and an area of expertise which no-one can take away from me.

Tomorrow, I'm going to Leeds to film a documentary with Channel 4 about my work with disabled clients and I wouldn't say I'm nervous, I'm terrified, although I know it will be fine once I start. I will be throwing off my cloak of invisibility because what we do as sex workers with disabled clients is too important. The general public need to see what we do, our gentle, nurturing side.

Thank you D. Finally, now I get what you meant and I hope you're proud.

LL xx

Topiaries and Tom Cruise

Thusfar, November has been stressful beyond belief. In fact, when I recently met Rhoda Grant at Holyrood, I told her that I will be a size ten by Christmas and it's all her fault. How we laughed.

Meanwhile, at Activism HQ, we've had moments of nothingness, by which I mean, November and December are just so full on that we wondered what on earth we will campaign about come the new year. Fear not, for I have a solution.

Mandatory conscription for sixteen year old males to a two week intensive training piece on kissing. Preferably, this would be held in the dark, but I'm sure that idea would be contrary to some Human Rights Convention or another, initiated by some well meaning train spotter called Colin.

This rather unique and brilliant idea was born out of my time on Facebook yesterday, when I noticed several friends vying for the title of most notable Movember 'tache. I know I'm an escort, but were I to sponsor them all I would have to resort to shop lifting cat litter again, not a prospect I relish to be honest.

It got me thinking about the whole Magnum PI era. Remember THAT moustache ? It was iconic, it was part of his character and it was even 'cool', but I bet his make up people didn't have to kiss him. See I don't mind moustaches or beards per se, they can even be sexy. Where it becomes problematic is where the length of such facial topiaries mean I will be eternally grateful for the emergency tonsillectomy I had as a child.

The crux of the matter is this, kissing is rather like any other form of oral gratification, it needs to be built up slowly, y'all. I make no secret of my love of cheesecake but to woff it down in one would be gluttonous and anyway, the taste needs to be savoured, treasured even.

So I object, yes I said OBJECT to anyone who thinks that as a prerequisite to making the beast with two backs they can explore my larynx and expect me not to gag, (I gave up fake moaning years ago). Don't do that, dude. Softly softly catchy girly, or words to a similar effect anyway.

All of the above has been brought on by an event last night which will scar me for life. One of my friends sent me as message as follows - "Remember that day when we bunked off school and watched THAT scene from Top Gun over and over ? We rewound that Betamax tape until there was smoke coming from the machine just so we could see Tom Cruise making love in silhouette ? Well I've found the scene on You-Tube."

I was so excited I could barely contain myself, indeed boy cat dived for cover. But what I witnessed resulted in slack jawed horror. He does the tongue thing, BEFORE they've even hit the bed. UNFORGIVABLE. I thought my respect for Tom Cruise had diminished beyond any and all conceivable repair following *that* incident on Oprah's sofa, but no. I'm done with him now. And November.

LL xx

Pregnancy and progress

I can still remember where I was when I found out I was pregnant. It was in the bathroom of the office where I worked and I can still feel my cheeks burning with shame at the recollection of the 'walk of shame' to my manager's office. It was the year 2000. Yes indeed, Robbie William's 'Millenium'.

"Um, I need some time off".

"OK, going anywhere nice"?

"Not really, the maternity hospital".

I can still see his face now, it was a curious hybrid of a fatherly like concern combined with an embarrassed half smile.

I don't regret becoming a mother. Quite the opposite, there are very stressful times when the only thing which keeps me going is that cheeky wee face around my door. Why else would I have just agreed to another three days in Blackpool Tower with two thousand, (count them) TWO THOUSAND little princesses running riot in sequins ? If I have any regrets, it's the manner is which my little darling was conceived. She wasn't planned, hell no. I went with the old Irish Catholic method of "Och, it'll be all right". Quelle surprise, it wasn't. Wasn't it Billy Connolly who nodded in the direction of the Catholic Church and the rhythm method for his very existence ?

Post conception, I struggled with the shame thing for a while. I COULDN'T be pregnant, because I come from a very large, very Catholic family. What to do ? Common sense prevailed when I realised at 27, I had a full time job, with maternity leave. Not quite the end of the world then. Still, telling those closest to me was hard, although once La Princess arrived, the whole schema became pink and fluffy.

See, I come from a country where until recently, it was deemed acceptable to condemn women to a life of abject torture in The Magdalene Laundries, because they were unmarried and pregnant. Indeed, in some cases they weren't even pregnant, just "queer". I come from a country where in 1984, Ann Lovett lay down beneath a statue of Our Lady. She died from irreversible shock caused by haemorrhage and exposure during childbirth and her new born son died also.

I come from a country where for years, the Catholic Church became a convenient hiding place for paedophiles and homosexuals because you see at that time, they were one and the same. I come from a country where every time one of those sons of God attacked a child, they were simply moved to another parish and a huge cover up ensued. All of those cover ups are only beginning to come to the surface now, as are the cover ups around the Magdalene Laundries.

As a society though, we have moved on, right ? Well no, not really. Today I have taken time out to read the horror story of a young woman who was effectively sentenced to death by Irish Catholicism. Strong words ? Maybe, but the truth is she was bearing a child who stood no chance at a sustainable life and because of the archaic laws surrounding the rights of an unborn child, she was allowed to die. I'll just say that again. SHE WAS ALLOWED TO DIE. There was no medical intervention to remove the foetus and ultimately, although the child was destined to die, the mother lost her life also.

There's something seriously skewed with that thinking. Let me make this plain, as a feminist I am not pro-abortion, not at all. But that's MY choice. I don't deem it my right to dictate to any body else what they should and shouldn't do with their own bodies. Never will I support the Jeremy Kyle generation who pop down the clinic to have termination number three because they can't be bothered to use contraception or because they simply decide at twenty weeks that they've changed their mind. Not on.

The women who choose to have a very early abortion deserve a mention too, I don't believe they ought to be burnt at the stake either. A bitch will fight to the death for her pups yes, but sometimes she will eat them. It's called survival.

The afore mentioned situations are different, this is a woman's life we're talking about. A happily married woman who could have continued to have had any number of successful pregnancies.

Is it any wonder that a sizeable proportion of my Irish friends have converted from Roman Catholicism to Christianity ? Not really.

LL xx

Faux Feminism

The recent suicide of Amanda Todd got me thinking. From where I'm sitting, there are two schools of thought. One is that she was a young girl who made a stupid mistake on a social networking site by exposing her breasts. One picture ended up doing the rounds of various social platforms and in the end, she could stand the bullying no longer and in spite of having changed schools, she gave up and ended her life.

The second school of thought suggests that she recorded multiple videos involving masturbation, which she distributed through BlogTV whilst persuading a thirteen year old boy to cheat on his girlfriend. Amanda Todd has been compared with Paris Hilton, hence the picture above. "Why does everyone pick on Paris, she does such great work for charity and she only did one sex tape".

Give me a break.

Let's get this into perspective here. Paris Hilton is an attention seeking 'celebrity' who spends Daddy's money and gets to go to lots of red carpet events to exchange air kisses with other beautiful people who have also had sex tapes leaked (cough) and feel her 'pain'. Amanda Todd was a young school girl who was physically assaulted and dumped in a ditch. She drank bleach in an effort to kill herself and when that didn't work, she committed suicide, this time ensuring it was effective.

Those are not the actions of an attention seeker. Those are the actions of someone who had truly had enough and wanted off this planet, for good. But why ? Because some pitiful insecure pack running bullies decided she wasn't good enough to join their social circle ? Really ?

When it comes to overt sexuality, why is it that women perpetually turn on women ? This is what I find so perplexing. We live in a society which deems it acceptable for an individual to approach a seven year old child and tell her - "Your mother is going to die of AIDS", simply because that child's mother chooses to work quite legally as a sex worker.

We live in a society in which Rape Crisis Scotland deem it acceptable to loudly announce a 'Reclaim The Night' march in Glasgow in support of women against rape (which in itself is fantastic) but to then denounce sex work as an 'act of violence'. One rule for the 'nice' women and one rule for sex workers ?

We live in a society in which Joan Burnie of the Daily Record deems it acceptable to say that Edinburgh saunas are "sad, seedy and sorry". I doubt that she has ever set foot in a sauna in her life, I challenge Ms. Burnie to visit the saunas with me, and speak to the women therein. I think she'll find that they are very much of the same ilk as herself, ordinary women getting by and paying their bills day to day.

All of the above is what I lovingly refer to as 'faux feminism'. It's when women who choose to call themselves feminists selectively choose their allies, to the exclusion of other minority groups who don't meet their moral standards. And it's not on.

So why am I so angry about 'faux feminism' ?

I'm a sex worker, prostitute, whore, call me what you will. I have felt first hand what it feels like to be isolated and bullied because of what I have chosen to do in private, between consenting adults, and within the law. I don't fit within the moral code of faux feminists, I make them uncomfortable. How they deal with that discomfort is to project their insecurities onto me.

They call me slut. They call me whore. They hold their husbands tighter. They hitch their skirts higher, to compete.

None of which bothers me, but what does bother me is when a young impressionable girl like Amanda Todd is driven to suicide because of the elitism of others. She was a hormonal teenager and flashed her breasts. Crime of the century ? We could have a discussion around the 'Page 3' debate ad infinitum, but the reality is, there will always be breasts in the media. Nudity, even. I'm willing to bet that the very women who complain loudest about the 'abuse' of such 'victims' who dare to show their breasts on a public platform are the very ones who creep to bed with 'Fifty Shades of Grey' and their rampant rabbit. That's morally preferable, after all.

I just hope that those who ensured Amanda Todd's early grave can live with their conscience and can sleep at night. I sure as hell couldn't bear that burden, and if you pay any heed to the sex work abolitionists, then you will know that my future confessional is simply straining at the seams.

LL xx

Can't cook, won't cook

See, here's the thing.

I need a hobby. I don't have time for a hobby but I need one nonetheless. This is because I am about to embark on the two most stressful months of my life, (exams, activism and a personal life which would drive St. Peter to genocide). I've all but decided that said hobby will be cookery, mainly because I can't cook to save anyone's life and secondly because it's flexible in terms of how and when I wreck it.

I have an idealistic vision of yours truly, resplendent in a gingham apron, smiling beatifically and shelling peas effortlessly into a sparkling stainless steel pot, to produce an acclaimed home made dish which is the envy of every middle class housewife in the village. So much so, that they will decline to enter their gooseberry jams and strawberry flans into the annual county fair for fear of humiliation.

I fear that this vision of mine is doomed to failure for lots of reasons really, but let me examine just two.

1. I CAN'T COOK

Quite a while ago now, a dear friend presented me with a gift of a cookery book, the short title of which might as well have been, "cooking for gobshites". Chapter one was devoted to "how to cook an egg". What could possibly go wrong ? Particularly when they even included instructions on how to cook an egg in a microwave, (for busy professionals, you know). Place the egg on a small saucer with a little water and place in microwave. Idiot proof really, except at no point did they say to remove it from the shell firstly. It may surprise you to learn that when I tried to "top" the egg with a small spoon the resulting explosion and coating of walls was enough to send my house mates into convulsions and that tale went around our social circles for far longer than I would have preferred.

Undeterred, and now in my own bedsit, I announced to a fellow student and good pal that I was going to cook her a Sunday roast dinner. Perhaps I chose to ignore her crestfallen expression, I mean nothing was going to get in the way of this ideal project. I produced lovely vegetables and gravy, all topped off with chicken which was a little bit crispy on the outside but I felt that the fact it was a bit pink in the middle kinda made up for it. After all, you can have medium beef, so you can have medium chicken, right ? Both of us were in bed for two days, with only a large basin and tender sips of 7-up for company. I did apologise.

2. MY ADDICTIVE/PERFECTIONIST NATURE

As a pseudo-adult, I am now acutely aware of my highly addictive personality.

When Amanda and I were on the tour circuit, we both discovered a game on Facebook which at the time, was all the rage, Farmville. Suddenly, I had a farm to tend every day and most of my friends were playing it too. When it got to the point where I was spending up to two hours a day milking cyber cows and reaping cyber strawberry harvests just so I could "level up", I had to acknowledge that this was becoming somewhat of an obsession. With a heavy heart, I deleted my account although I would like it noted that I had the highest score at the time, hell I even had my own mechanical plough.

The early days of my recovery from Farmville were difficult and there were many times when Amanda had to physically restrain me from climbing a fence just off the A9 to deftly organise some bales of hay in an adjoining field. Indeed, come lambing time I still get the odd twitch and if I had my way, those lambs would be organised into groups according to size, weight and colour coded too. On even daring to present with such a twitch, Amanda sits on my head, surprisingly effective.(Truly, that woman will never know what she means to me.)

In real terms with my new chosen hobby, gone will be the apron, the smile and the award winning marmalade.

In it's place will be a woman demented, stomping up and down the galley at 2am and shrieking -

"THE RECIPE SAID TWO HUNDRED FECKIN' DEGREES".

I am determined though. At this point I would usually ask you to "wish me luck".
Instead the mantra in my house when I step into the kitchen seems appropriate -

Good luck everyone.

LL xx

P.S : Hardcore activism begins mid-October, as soon as I have my horrendous exams out the way. You have been warned.

Apes and Altruism

Is there any such thing as true altruism ? I ask because of late I have been studying apes, not the type to be found at the taxi rank just off Sauchiehall Street on a Friday night, but bonobos. The female of the species appease an aggressive male by having sex with him, and in doing so ensure the continuity of peace within the group. That's all very magnanimous of her, but isn't there a reciprocal benefit ? As a female I know that you can't put a price on peace and quiet and what of her own sexual pleasure ? Also, what of her own increased standing in her peer group as a peace maker ?

I ask for your opinions on altruism (and do please feel free to comment) because last weekend, I raised the level of magnanimousness to infinity, I agreed to take LP to a "dance competition" in Blackpool. If the truth be known, I was rather looking forward to it because I had never been to Blackpool before and also, I knew she would enjoy the experience because she has been training SO hard, (for which read, almost taking the cat's eye out in the living room with various contortions which would have Madonna reaching for her cod liver oil).

On arrival to the recommended hotel (which by the way, I wouldn't order a sub to stay in), we were greeted with the familiar base beat of the music which was to haunt my life and my dreams for the next 48 hours.

Every parent's worst nightmare (aside from the very obvious) must surely be your treasured child, having consumed three cans of red bull, cartwheeling across the reception area of a hotel, almost knocking the zimmer frame out from under Glenda, recently arrived back from her trip to the local bingo. Ordinarily, I would die before I would allow my little darling anywhere near red bull, but here I had to concede because this is the way it's done at "comps". The dancing that they do is high energy, high effort and in repeated rounds, so if your little treasure wants to do well, taurine it is, like it or lump it.

One gets to an age where night clubs just no longer hold any appeal, the loud music, blinding lights and having to roar at each other become tiresome, a good meal out with some laughter becomes far preferable and to be honest, the thoughts of having some gobshite try and bellow some cheesy lines at me at the bar of a noisy nightclub in an attempt to get me under his duvet just fills me with horror. GET. LOST.

So, here's where the altruism comes into play. I placed myself in a darkened function room for two days, with two hundred wild eyed little princesses, all decked from head to toe in sequins and flinging themselves around to the incessant bellow of massive speakers, HELL.

Of most curiosity were the Mothers who wondered past with a broad beam, "...you enjoying yourself ? It's a great atmosphere !!"

ARE YOU QUITE MAD ??

From time to time, I took time out to retreat to our hotel room, and in spite of my immortal terror of them, I could enjoy the sight of several large rats scampering over the bins at the back of the hotel, (told you it was a dump) mainly because I was two floors above them. I allowed myself a flight of fantasy and pictured what it must be like as a rat. I'm sure it's pretty shit overall, what with natural predators, poisons, not to mention those eejits on a "life of grime", but at least they don't have to sit and "enjoy" two days of some truly dreadful music which would drive squatters and bed bugs out, never mind hotel "guests".

So in the end, I gave up. Sod it, if you can't beat them, join them and I necked two red bulls just to join in the hysteria and see what I was missing out on. Bugger all actually, but at least it convinced LP that an early night was in order if only to stop me doing my "Ebeneezer Good" rave moves on the dance floor, mission accomplished.

In the end, when I had all but voluntarily signed myself in to the nearest secure unit where I could draw with some nice non toxic crayons all day, came the moment, that which made it all worthwhile.

She had done it and lifted a very large trophy over her head, to tumultuous applause, and screeches from her amassed completely delirious and cross eyed peers.

"Altruism" my backside, the reciprocal feeling of maternal pride was one I won't let go of for a very long time to come.

LL xx

Lies, damned lies and statistics

If Thomas Gradgrind had his way, society as we know it would be immersed in facts and nothing else. In the current heated debates which are going on in the press, on the net and all around us, facts would appear to be an alien and unnecessary complication to an otherwise "worthwhile" fresh assertion from the abolitionists and anti's, hell bent on trying to stop the consensual exchange of sex for money.

If you really don't think a misrepresentation can be dangerous, let me give you an example. Say tomorrow I wrote a blog post and said -

"I've been having a think about my marketing techniques and I think I'm going to make some changes. From now on, every Friday in Glasgow I will be holding a bareback gang bang, £50 for a two hour session, up to ten guys max please".

Now, anyone who knows me (and my sense of humour, more to the point) would snort with laughter and email me with "ye daft bint". Unfortunately, there are 5 out of every 100 people who would read that blog post and believe it, THAT'S where the danger lies. So when I read such statements on Twitter as "Everyone knows that 14% of all prostitutes in the EU are trafficked", apart from almost making me choke on my jaffa cake, I realise there is work to be done here.

Let me qualify that last statement by saying that I am of course acutely aware that there are fantastic activists out there, fighting on all of our behalves to put the record straight and not just activists, journalists and academics too, witness this article by Nick Davies where he compares the moral panic around trafficking to that of weapons of mass destruction and further, this wonderful piece by Brooke Magnanti, on the more pertinent question of why Scotland should never outlaw the purchase of sex.

But therein lies my internal problem, why leave it to those who have taken the time to properly research and reference their work ? Sure, I can put together a compelling argument based on my years of experience, but it strikes me that when this debate is going to get as dirty as you could possibly imagine, then in the end, cold hard facts are what will win the war.

I could pour my efforts into undermining the "opposition" in their personal capacities but to me, far more can be accomplished by strengthening our own position, rather than hurling accusations at the "enemy". If they want to make themselves look like spiteful malicious bringers of the wrath of doom, so be it. The truth is that I have several academic clients who have been verbally scalding me for not following the blatantly obvious path of fact.

So, the proverbial worm has turned. Just when my pals will be sipping cocktails on the Costa Del Sol and enjoying surreptitious shags in the shade (I really need to get past this alliteration thing), yours truly will be on a lounger in my back garden with several kilos of cat thereon and academic reports to digest and best utilise.

Before I head off into the dark recesses of red bull and anti-socialism, I wanted to draw your attention to the fantastic new national ugly mugs scheme launched by the UKNSWP and with the hard work and dedication of Amy too, it's a credit to everyone involved and a huge step forward in the protection of sex workers.

‘Girl number twenty unable to define a horse!’ said Mr Gradgrind, for the general behoof of all the little pitchers. ‘Girl number twenty possessed of no facts, in reference to one of the commonest of animals!

Wish me luck.

LL xx

Bankers and Biblicals

Good evening and greetings from Edinburgh, where I am chilling out in my hotel room after a busy couple of days involving a measuring tape and my nurse's uniform ( don't ask, field report pending which promises to be a belting read ). Before I forget, I've now done my availability diary and tour dates until the end of April, some call it being anally retentive, I call it being organised. Besides, J and I are away to Ireland for a week in April, plans include a visit to a wildlife centre so I'm looking forward to that immensely.

A brief note on Whitney Houston; now I've read all the comments about how she was a junkie and therefore it was only a matter of time etc. but I must confess the only emotion I felt when I learnt she'd died was overwhelming sadness. Did she push the self destruct button ? Yep. Was she the master of her own demise ? Almost certainly. But the fact remains, long before autotune, Whitney simply blew us away with the sheer raw power of her voice. Who can forget her awesome performance at Superbowl ? For me, her demise is best summed up in this clip. In summary, there were many people around her who supported her addiction rather than any attempt at recovery and that's what makes it sad.

Anyroad, speaking of sad, you will recall that recently when I was blogging about boy cat I mentioned that I prayed and that I have a faith. Ho ho, that brought them out of the woodwork and no mistake. OK, for the hard of thinking and those down the back let me say this for once and all, NO-ONE has the right to judge me. If you truly are a Christian as you claim, then you will know, only one person has the right to judge me and it most certainly is not you, yes you, the "lady" who emails and texts me incessantly with a plea to "turn to God".

Allow me to explain this to you. I have had elongated discussions with a man I would describe as a biblical scholar and I think you'll find that nowhere in the bible is it mentioned that prostitution should be deemed morally wrong. I've said it before and I'll say it again, if I thought what I was doing was morally wrong I would desist immediately. It's not, so I won't.

I'll also ask you to remember that when Jesus went into the temple and was faced with tax collectors and courtesans, it was the bankers he threw out. Quite right too, look at the feckin' state they have the country in now.

LL xx

Holidays and Happy Hookers

Roite, I'm off ( well almost ). On Wednesday I am heading for the Isle of Man, returning to sunny Ayrshire to empty my suitcase unceremoniously into the laundry basket before refilling with pieces of cloth masquerading as clothes which would make The Mothers' eyes roll in the back of her head, then it's off to Turkey. All in all I won't be back in Glasgae until Tuesday the 25th, just in time to erect the electric fencing and trip wires for the little darlings at Halloween. ( Aside from the local "nice" children, we also get an influx of mini-skinheads who "egg yer gaff" if you don't give them cash, so preparation is key. ) I suppose you're wondering why on earth I have a picture of battling pandas to accompany this post ? No reason really, other than I thought it was an awesome picture and I don't see how they hope to avoid extinction if they keep battling each other with light sabres.

I came across this little beauty the other day, it's from the European Women's Lobby and features this video, which quite honestly blew my mind. "Prostitution is a form of violence and oppression", apparently. Yet again, the glaringly obvious has been over looked, that is - the community of sex workers who are happy in their work, although according to Julie Bindel the "Happy Hooker" is a myth. If this is to be a movement lobbying for women's rights, what about my rights as a woman to work perfectly legally as an escort ? What about my right to earn a living and support my family ? Oh wait, those rights don't sit well with their moral values, so they can't be of any consequence.

The Sex Worker Open University have penned a reply to that video and I've included a quote for you below which I think is rather brilliant.

"The European Women's Lobby has recently launched a campaign called Together For a Europe Free from Prostitution.

Their view of the sex industry is once more reducing women to victims, and prostitution to a system of violence against women. Once more, some women sitting in comfortable chairs in some official EU building are deciding what we should or should not do with our bodies. Once more, we are being silenced and victimised. Once more, our voices are being confiscated and we are not sex workers anymore but prostituted women.

That's enough.

We want to show them that sex work is work. This is how we make a living. This is how we pay our rent, our bills, our sex changes and our children's studies.
Those are our decisions. Our bodies. Our voices. Our lives.

We are from all genders and races.

Stop invisibilising trans women and men from the debate on sex work. Invisibilising us is a form of violence and discrimination.
Stop pretending that sex work is only male to female penetration. The services we offer are as varied as we are. Sex, companionship, BDSM, fetish.... Sex is not disgusting and the only thing that makes us sick is your insulting and degrading video.

To stop exploitation and abuse in the sex industry, we need to be heard. We want rights--human and labour rights, not more criminalisation. Criminalising our clients will only force us to work in more underground and less safe conditions.

You care about sex workers? You want us to stay alive? Listen to us now!
Stop victimising us. Stop criminalising us. Stop silencing us."

Fantastic, when I come back from holidays feeling less like I've been run over by a roads lorry from Glasgow City Council I will put pen to paper too.

In the meantime, farewell Steve Jobs. Like them or loathe them, Apple have been incredibly successful and Steve Jobs was a visionary - I love this quote from him;

"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped my dogma - which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of other's opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary."

LL xx

Bed Picnics and Belfast

Short, spiked fringes coaxed with gel ( fae Farmfoods ) and brushed forwards to within an inch of their lives, an over powering waft of Lynx Animal and his and hers shiny tracksuits - it can only mean one thing, I'm back in Glasgow, hurrah.

I had a splendid time in London. Firstly let me say it is always a pleasure to meet a gentleman who has found me via Rhia Charles, as I know he'll have a modicum of basic manners and decorum as a minimum. This particular gent arrived at my hotel room with a bed picnic, consisting of freshly squeezed orange juice, smoked salmon, grapes and chocolate biscuits too, it was bliss, ( or as we say in Glasgow - it was pure brilliant, so it was ).

I had the opportunity to have dinner with Ellie LLoyd, Susan and Burlesque Honey and we amused ourselves by people watching. To be more specific, we were watching one particular "lady" ( and I use the term very loosely indeed ) who was gyrating around a bemused business man with such ferocity that I thought she was going to do her neck an injury with all that orgasm-mimicking flicking that was going on. We were in stitches to begin with, especially when said business man spotted us and said -

"In her defence, she IS Norwegian."

Well that finished us off I'm afraid. In the end I found myself rather annoyed that her so called "friends" didn't get her in a headlock and take her to her room to sleep off the excesses because she really was in danger of doing something dreadfully daft. Ho hum.

Tomorrow I'm off to Belfast and true to form the volcanic ash has hit us once again, just on time. Great. Hopefully Spandex and I will formulate an alternative travel plan which succeeds, otherwise I shall miss my monthly tryst. I've grown completely impervious to the bemused looks of security men now, I usually just flash them a grin.

Well, I'm sure I'm not the first woman to walk through customs with a rampant rabbit, butt plug, cat o'nine tails, handcuffs, bondage rope, lube in several flavours, nipple clamps, an egg topper, various restraints, a blindfold and two strap ons. Anyway, if anyone compromises my identity on Twitter I can always sue, I don't see why not, every other fecker is.

LL xx

Moggies, Mountains and Missions

I really wish the red deer of Scotland would have an EGM.

"Listen guys, I'm not so sure about this 'standing in the middle of the road' thing. That's Kenny AND Colin we've lost this last week alone, and Heaven alone knows if Kev's antlers will ever be the same again." They could introduce some punitive measure such as having to shack up with the doe with the worst breath, for instance. Everyone's a winner, the bucks get to shine up their antlers in time for the rutting season and I don't almost roll my car around a feckin' ditch trying to dodge them on the A82 on my way back from The Highlands. *sigh*

I think it's fair to say that girl cat is not exactly known for her high intellectual ability either, which is one of the reasons I adore her. There's a wonderful Glasgow expression .... "there's a want about that cat", which just about sums her up really. Never in my life have I met a cat who will repeatedly chase her own tail, catch it, bite it, cry ... and do it again - nor have I ever met a cat who ( when I have the audacity to close my bedroom door for some 'me' time ) headbutts the door repeatedly to the amusement of my pal who remarked -

'Gonnae buy that cat a wee American footie helmet 'afore she knocks wuts left o' her brains oot.' ( I've never been one for dressing up animals but I must admit, that does sound unbearably cute. )

Since I moved into my new dwelling, boy cat has established himself in the back garden and takes great pleasure in tormenting my neighbour's Shih Tzus by doing the circumference of the garden on a high wall and waving his tail at them. It hasn't occurred to him yet that they're too busy humping anything which moves ( each other usually ), to notice or even care. Girl cat, on the other hand, managed to get out of the kitchen ( NB : not while I was here ) and has yet to return. That was two weeks ago. :(

Since then, a massive search and rescue mission has been ongoing, with various members of my family and friends roaming the streets calling her and rattling her favourite biscuit box, but to no avail. At first I thought she'd return when she was hungry, ( so within 45 minutes then ) but zilch. In the interim I have called the police, the council and the Cat's Protection League and whilst I know it's a voluntary post and to be commended, I really wish the gentleman that persons the telephone would hone his people skills, just a tad.

"Is she neutered ?"

"Yes she is, and micro-chipped too."

"Ah well, that's good then, I haven't had a report of a CARCASS matching her description yet".

"Um .... well that's positive I guess."

".....because you see what happens is, even if she was flattened by a car, it's the Council's job to pick up the CARCASS. The CARCASS is then transported to the depot and scanned to see if there is any owner. None of the local vets have reported a CARCASS either."

In case it hasn't become screamingly apparent over time, I adore my mogs, so to hear my beloved Foghorn Leghorn ( one of her pet names ) described as a "CARCASS" was a bit upsetting to be honest. He really did bellow it too, it must be his word of the week. It did nothing to ease my stress levels I can tell you.

My own opinion is that she has pitched up with some sweet old lady somewhere and is busy eating her out of house and home - I can see her now, opening her big green eyes and miaowing like she's never been fed, a poster child for the SSPCA. I really hope she makes it home, but as time goes by I'm starting to wonder. My misery has been compounded by my new neighbour ( a fearsome woman who resembles Popeye, but with blonde hair ), who told me of a spate of cat nappings in the area a couple of years ago, "for the greyhounds". I don't want to even think about that. :(

Onto matters more positive, I had a splendid time in The Highlands, we took a cable car up the Nevis Range and the above picture was taken there, fabulous views. From just south of Fortwilliam we took the Corran Ferry to Ardgour and drove out to Ardnamurchan. It really is a place of exceptional natural beauty and peace, lucky as we were to be able to watch some herons nesting, and to simply enjoy the glorious landscape and blazing sun. Later in the week we were booked to do some off-road driving in a Landrover Defender and once I got over my initial nerves I was driving around like Mr. Magoo with "go faster" stripes, it was a hoot.

In fact, lately I've begun to appreciate the outdoors a lot more and have recently discovered the merits of running, ( yes, really ). I don't claim for one minute to be able to run particularly fast or for long periods of time but I love it, the rush of adrenalin is fantastic and I have managed to shed a further 7 pounds whilst pounding around with my Ipod too.

As you know if you have read my inane witterings as far back as that, last year I had a rather nasty scare when I found a lump, every woman's worst nightmare, ( not to mention what my Sis went through ). So, this year myself and a group of my girl friends are doing the "Race for Life" in Glasgow on Sunday June 5th, to raise money for cancer research. I have set up a fund raising page under my nom de plume so that anyone who reads my blog may also donate to Marie Curie too, a very worthy cause. I have set my target at £500 which is very attainable I would say so dig deep people !!
If you'd like to sponsor me you can do so without giving any of your personal information through this here link -

http://www.justgiving.com/Laura-Lee4

Thank you SOOOO much in advance, I will let you know how it all goes and how much I manage to raise too.

LL xx

Shakespeare and "Sorry"

In the grand scheme of things, I'd rather not have been around when Shakespeare was writing one of his masterpieces. With all that backstabbing ( metaphorically and physically speaking ) that was going on, by the end of one of his productions, almost the entire cast has been murdered or they've gone stark raving mad. I remember with a tremendous fondness being brought to see Zepherelli's production of Romeo and Juliet and being absolutely gutted at the end. "Nooooo, don't do that, she's not really dead, she's .... Oh." ( As I recall, the whole excursion was almost ruined by a couple of eegits who bellowed during the love scene "Good man yerself" but a steely glare from Sr. Bernadette soon sorted that. )

After that we went on to do The Scottish Play, and Lady M remains one of my favourite characters to this day. ( I don't suppose it occurred to anyone to tell her that all the sweet perfumes of Arabia would do nothing to help a psychotic episode but then it was centuries ago. )

The reason I'm having fond Shakespearian thoughts is because on Saturday, J took me to the Theatre Royal in Glasgow to see King Lear and it was wonderful. When the lead character carried Cordelia onto the stage for the final scene, I must admit my waterproof mascara was tested to the max. ( In fact I made my excuses and made for the ladies after curtain fall, only to run into a regular client and his wife, but she was too busy exchanging air-kisses with the creme de la creme of Glasgow society to notice the animated wink he sent my way - cheeky sod. )

A few things have had me deep in thought lately, not in a maudlin way though.

About a month ago I had a serious falling out with a lady who means a lot to me, I lost my temper ( as did she ) and since we are both of a similar Celtic disposition ( for which read - feisty, hot headed and stubborn as mules ), a silence ensued that I know affected me deeply, perhaps her too, although it would kill her to admit it.

Then I went on tour to Newcastle and Susan and I watched the news coverage of the events in Japan unfolding with slack-jawed horror. These people were having their entire lives taken from them, their homes, their families, their everything. It really put my own gripes into perspective and so I did the unthinkable, I wrote a very long and very open email which in all honesty could have been summed up in one word - "Sorry".

Within 18 hours, came the reply, equally as laborious but which could be summarised as "It takes two people to have a row, so I guess I'm partially to blame too". ( If you knew the lady concerned, that really is an incredibly generous concession to blame, more than I expected actually. ;) )

Sometimes, to apologise and offer the hand of friendship is to be the bigger woman and I'm very glad I did.

LL xx

Tears, Tours and Tetanus

Morning all, I'm at home following a very enjoyable evening with a new client, what a gentleman. We had a laugh and a half, thank you D. :)

My phone has not stopped going for the past couple of days with texts and calls from some of the loveliest women I know. Jeez, I've been blown away. Amanda, Amber, Anna Aroma, Claire, Susan, Caitlin, Louise, Faye, Hannah - if I've forgotten anyone I apologise. They've all taken the time out to find out how I'm doing and I have been very tearful just reading the messages. Thank you ladies ( and also to the gents too, you know who you are. )

I'm doing OK, I don't really want to go into details but I'm staying positive. :)

Now then, I've done my diary until the end of August and my planned tours are as follows -

* London City - 22nd and 23rd of July
* Inverness incalls 29th and 30th July
* Newcastle incalls 3rd and 4th August
* Inverness incalls 12th and 13th August
* Carlisle incalls 18th and 19th August

I'm limited in my touring opportunities for August because at the end of the month I am off to Catalonia again with Mr F which I am looking forward to more than I can possibly describe, ( apart from the Ryanair flight, which can't be helped. )

Meanwhile it looks like we might need another trip to my GP. *sigh*

I have brought the light of my life up to love animals and if I catch her so much as squashing a spider she is in big trouble. There are two downsides to that.

1. She regularly marches into the kitchen announcing; "RIGHT, WE'RE ADOPTING A DOLPHIN." I have to carefully explain that whilst I appreciate it's only £5 a month and you even get a picture ( Goddamn those TV ads ) I already donate to animal charities every month and we both sponsor a dog.

2. She insists on petting every mutt tied up outside Asda. I have told her until I'm blue in the face that some dogs are very nervous and you can't just launch yourself on them to see if they fancy a belly rub. Yesterday this resulted in a short sharp shock which has just about broken skin and since I can't remember when she last had a tetanus, it's the doctor's tomorrow. Oh joy.

Have a great Sunday everyone.

LL xx

Pals and Prossies

Evening all, greetings from home.

I've had a wonderful couple of days but very hectic, to put it mildly. On Thursday night I went to meet two very dear friends for dinner and I think we finally toppled over at about 3.30am, gibbering quietly. It was fantastic, we laughed like demented donkeys and talked about everything, from the state of the new coalition to the crucial issue of salad cream versus mayonnaise.

Friday saw the first meeting of the GPS, ( Glasgow Prossie's Society, obviously ). Susan, Hannah, myself and a new lady called Faye met for lunch and it was fantastic. I have always been a firm believer in networking and getting to know other ladies because I believe that the industry can be a very lonely and isolating place if you don't have someone you can confide in, even if it's just to say - "Urgh, I was so looking forward to that appointment but Shrek opened the door". Some of our other members such as Caitlin and Casey were away, but we have decided to make Amanda a member by proxy. She's not Glasgow based obviously, but she behaves like The Barras finest on tour, so that's good enough for us. ( She's going to murder me for that ).

Back to the new lady, she came to me via the buddy scheme and has just launched her site, there's a link to it here ;

www.fayeglasgow.co.uk

Err, do you think someone on high is trying to tell me something ? That's the second lady I've buddied who is blonde, slim and gorgeous. Grrr. Anyway, Faye and Hannah are off to Heathrow on their first tour together this week, so all the very best ladies, 'ave it large and enjoy yourselves. :)

Finally, the appointment has come through; mammogram on the 13th followed by an appointment with a consultant on the 15th. I'm not scared, not at all. A big strapping lassie like myself ?

I'm petrified.

LL xx