“Can I come down now?” I shout. My hiding place in the attic is stuffy and uncomfortable.
Perhaps I should have taken more care with my Google research.
“Let’s role-play” she had said.
“Let’s do 50 shades” she had mischievously grinned.
I’ve heard things about that book. It sounded like we could be in for a fun night.
“I want you to be my Mr. Grey”
“Leave it with me” I confidently replied.
But I haven’t read the book and so I hit Google. I really should have typed in ‘50 Shades’, I suppose, but instead I went straight for hunting out this Mr. Grey and from the deepest crevice of my brain I tried to remember what she’d said his first name was.
Which has left me here in the attic, while my wife is downstairs watching Desperate Housewives with a photograph of me from my 20s on the mantle.
Frankly, this Dorian Grey fantasy of hers is really not working for me.
To find out what happened when we tried again, having properly researched my role this time, please click here – it’s worth it.