A cave man

I’m going into some caves this weekend. I’m going to be a mad-looking bugger with a light shining from my forehead.

So the incredibly slow-moving story of Raylene will have to continue on Monday.

I’m going with a couple, as the third wheel, being a friend of the man. The woman has not necessarily warmed to me. I’ll say “yet”, because she doesn’t actually hate me. But I have boring conversations about music with her boyfriend.

I’ll be at a hotel built in the 19th Century, which makes it an old, even ancient, building in this part of the world.

A cavewoman. She’s mostly gratuitous, because I’ve written about caves but this is a sex blog. But isn’t it interesting how your expectations change, according to whether you hear the words “cave man” or “cave woman”

It used to be wonderfully old-fashioned – a roast on Sundays in the restaurant, served by doddery but learned male waiters, with no female waiters – but it’s been done up. Now there will be dishes with a pistachio and marrow jus, and so on, served by a beautiful German girl, nearly seven feet tall, who speaks better English than most of the guests, making a bit of money to keep her holiday going. 

I don’t think one is better than the other: it’s just that the old-fashioned version is rarer. 

Anyway, this weekend I’m a cave man: big boots, mad bugger forehead-light, club. Normal service will be resumed shortly.