Studer troll **Alert**
Mrs T xx
> Studer troll **Alert**
And for this you quoted the entirety of the post?
Matthew B. Tepper: WWW, science fiction, classical music, ducks!
My personal home page -- http://home.earthlink.net/~oy/index.html
My main music page --- http://home.earthlink.net/~oy/berlioz.html
To write to me, do for my address what Androcles did for the lion
I ask you to judge me by the enemies I have made. ~ FDR (attrib.)
Mrs Terfel wrote:
>Oh brava, La Donna - this is brilliant. When do we get Part 2 ????
>Mrs T xx
Patience my friend. I have some work work to complete.
And I need a good dose of Tristan und Isolde for erotic stimulation.
OK, I'll be patient. But don't leave it too long in case SJT decides
to jump on the bandwagon and write a very smutty chapter 2 on your
Mrs T xx
Light streamed into my bedroom – my suite. The butler was opening the
curtains. I could smell coffee. “Good morning madam,” he greeted me.
“It’s a beautiful day today, look.” He pointed to the sea view. Excited,
I sat up and reclined against the firm pillows and cushions. He tried to
avert his eyes from my naked breasts, but one glance below his waist I
knew that he was finding it, er, hard. Flustered, he pointed to my
breakfast tray on the table. “Orange juice, smoked salmon and scrambled
egg, and coffee, as Madam ordered. If Madam requires anything else, just
lift the telephone and I will bring it for Madam. I’m Bobby Lasagna,” he
added. I realised he expected a tip.
I gave him a good look, and was shocked at my thoughts. Would it be very
bad to attempt to seduce him? This was not me thinking! Would I know how
to do so? But for the first time in my life I had men at my
beck-and-call. Perhaps I could live a little whilst on the cruise. But,
I thought, that would be tantamount to infidelity. Although I would
remain faithful in my heart.
After a lazy breakfast, I dressed in a simple sundress. Simple, but more
expensive than any dress I had previously bought. I thought I would
explore the ship. We had boarded yesterday evening. I had eaten a light
dinner and retired early to my room, tired from the journey and from my
There were few people about. Here and there, people reclined in
deckchairs. I investigated the Beauty Salon and Spa on Deck 7. They were
practically deserted, except for one woman, young blonde and thin,
receiving a massage. I was not young, or blonde, or thin, but the scene
I looked at the noticeboard. There was a list of the spa staff. The
masseurs were called Brian Taffy, Jeremy Funlay, Clarissa Bartholomew
and Rhiann Flaherty. Judging from the photos, this masseur was Brian
Taffy. I rather liked the look of Jeremy Funlay.
I paused for a while to watch the massage. The young woman lay on her
front, her arms crossed casually in front of her. As far as I could
tell, she was naked except for a towel draped decorously across her,
covering her lower back to halfway down her thighs. Brian seemed deep in
concentration as he used his large hands expertly to massage the oil
into her back; the palms of his hands pummelled her shoulders, his
fingers, so surprisingly delicate for such a big man, built like a rugby
player, caressed her spine. Her moans of pleasure and relaxation told me
she was enjoying it. He took his hands away from her back, and moved to
her calves, using an upward and circular motion, moving up her legs,
nudging the bottom edge of the towel moving up her thighs. “Oh yes!” she
exclaimed. Breezily, he suggested that she turned over. I realised that
I could watch this no more, it was too much like voyeurism. To my
consternation, I realised I was turned-on by the sight.
I continued on my walk, ignoring the Fitness Centre, but pausing briefly
to watch a game of deck quoits being played at a leisurely pace by some
older gentlemen. Up one flight of steps and I found myself in the Lido
Café, next to the Lido Pool. There were two waiters and a waitress on
duty, all wearing their name badges. Ronald Vee, JohnJim Garden and
Amber George. Amber suggested I took a seat by the pool and whenever I
wanted anything, a drink or snack, they would bring it to me.
The lifeguard strolled over to me and held a hand to introduce himself.
“Hi,” he said, “I’m Norton Gatling.” He was wearing a very short pair of
navy shorts, that showed off his assets to great advantage –
well-developed pecs, a washboard stomach. I wondered whether that was
baby-oil that made his bronze chest gleam. No, it was probably suntan
lotion. Unless he had a massage earlier. From Clarissa or Rhiann, or
from Brian or Jeremy, I wondered. He saw me looking, but was unfazed, no
doubt he has many women, and not a few men, admiring his physique on
every cruise. He explained that if I wanted, I could be sprinkled with
Evian Water to keep me cool. Or he could help me apply my sun lotion if
I lay back on my recliner and began to read my book, Jilly Cooper’s
Score. I had read the first few chapters on the flight, but I found it
unsettling to be reading of this evil but sexy conductor. All I could do
was think of my favourite very sexy but not at all evil conductor.
Perhaps it was time to cool off in the Pool.
I jumped in gingerly, used to the bracing cold of Tooting Bec Lido, with
South trains thundering past every few minutes, en route for Croydon,
Crawley and Brighton. This water was gloriously warm, with no
interruptions from the everyday world. My every need attended to by two
gorgeous waiters and a hunk of a lifeguard, and a waitress who I
realised, was easy on the eye.
I splashed around for a while, playing like a water baby, aware that the
eyes of all four were on me. The normal me, back home, would have been
embarrassed, mortified, even, to have four people looking at me
cavorting. But to my surprise, I found I enjoyed it. Exhilarated by the
sense of freedom I surface dived to the bottom of the pool and slowly
rose to the surface. In the process, my bikini slipped and my breasts
spilled out. I am ambivalent about my breasts. 36GG means they are
conspicuous. They attract looks. Sometimes I think that men are more
interested in my breasts than my mind. But lying in my lonely bedsit bed
at nights, I love to grasp them in my hands, run my fingers over the
nipples, caress the silky soft skin of their underside, and sometimes, I
lean forward and take my own my nipples in my mouth. All the time
wishing I was not alone in bed, but that it was Plácido playing with my
breasts. Sometimes I can bring myself almost to orgasm by this alone.
Before I had set off on my journey, I had told myself “No one on board
will know you. You will never see any of them again. Enjoy yourself,
girl. Do everything you wouldn’t dare do in Tooting Bec.” I reminded
myself of this mantra.
I looked Ronald straight in the eye and tossed back my wet hair,
hopefully provocatively. With one deft arm movement, I removed my bikini
top and flung it to my sunlounger. Norton the lifeguard scurried to pick
it up. Clearly flustered, he knocked into a table. For a moment the
table wobbled, it seemed to stabilise, then, it wobbled precariously. To
my amusement, and to Norton’s obvious embarrassment, it fell over,
knocking over a chair which fell into the pool with an impressive
splash. Norton dived in, a confident straight-bodied dive, reminiscent
of an Olympian. He retrieved the chair, and righted it and the table.
His pristine navy shorts were now soaked through. I was shocked. They
were not suitable attire for a lifeguard, the damp material setting a
perfect silhouette around his manhood. I smiled at him, expressing my
gratitude that he had done all this just to hang my bikini top up to
dry. Barely perceptibly, but unquestionably, I saw a slight stiffening
of his manhood. I was surprised. I did not normally have this effect on men.
Discomforted, I began to swim. Never was the breaststroke so aptly
named. What an amazing sensation! I had never before swum topless. It
was as if the water was caressing my breasts, holding them buoyant,
tenderly stroking them. Idly, I wondered how it would feel to swim
Slowly I paddled, reaching the poolside bar, with bar stools submerged
below the surface of the water. “Do take a seat!” said Amber. Politely,
I asked for a mango juice. As Amber placed the glass in front of me on
the bar, I saw her look wistfully at my breasts. I looked at hers,
hidden though they were under a Hawaiian shirt. Little wonder she was
envious. She was more of a hip than boob woman. She reached out her
hand, and hurriedly withdrew it again. I felt myself blushing. I think
she wanted to touch my breasts. And to my surprise, I liked that
thought. I pondered whether to be brave enough to invite her to be my
guest when her attention was distracted by a male voice on the dryside
of the Lido Bar. Loudly demanding to be served. No please or thank you,
ordering, condescending. I felt myself cringing at his superior
attitude. And Amber looked resentful.
Then he looked at me. His mouth curled almost into a snarl, an ugly
distortion of an already ugly face. A fat ugly face, red with high blood
pressure and injudicious sunbathing. I would have called him corpulent,
but that word had an air of dignity about it. He was just fat, gross,
obese. Greedy and ugly. Looking like he might just burst a blood vessel
as he gesticulated wildly and growled at me in an unmistakably Bostonian
accent, “You! You whore! Bitch. How dare you? Exposing yourself in
public like that!”
Should I be confrontational? I asked. No, I vowed. No confrontations.
Confrontation is bad. I’m here on holiday, to relax. I smiled my
sweetest most saccharine smile at him, and in my best Received
Pronunciation, I said, “Welcome to Europe Old Chap! Anything Goes!” I
raised my glass of mango juice. “Bottoms up, my Good Man.” He waved his
fist in impotent anger, like a baddie in a Hanna-Barbera cartoon.
Goodness, I thought, that bloke has a lot of unresolved issues and
pent-up frustrations. Closet self-hating gay, I wondered. Then
reprimanded myself. This was not the time nor place for cod psychology.
I spent the rest of the morning in and out of the pool. It was rather
splendid. Unfortunately, I was not alone for long, as gradually more
passengers arranged themselves round the pool. However, most were
significantly older than me, all in couples or trios or quartets, and
most of them seemed just to want to sleep. No others ventured into the
pool to swim, and Norton Gatling was kept busy spraying them with Evian.
Everytime I went in to the pool I enjoyed the knowledge that Ronald,
JohnJim, Amber and Norton were surreptitiously watching me. The more I
was aware of being watched, the more I wanted to show off, yet,
something held me back. It was not in my nature to be an exhibitionist.
All too soon, the gong rang, warning that it was twenty minutes until
luncheon, just enough time to shower, towel dry my hair, and to change
back into my dress.
At lunch I was invited to join the Captain’s Table. His name badge said
Capt. Simon J Turner. Idly I speculated what the ‘J’ stood for. Julian?
Jolian? John? James? Joseph? José, maybe. (José was Plácido’s first
name, according to his birth certificate.) The Purser, Diana Vaughan,
explained that everybody addressed Captain Turner as ‘Sir’. The woman
next to me introduced herself. “I’m Fiona, I’m from Hertfordshire. And
this is my friend, Serafina.” I realised that Fiona was the young, thin,
blonde woman I had earlier seen so enjoying her massage with Brian Taffy.
Then Captain Turner – Sir – introduced me to the guest of honour at the
Top Table, none other than Divissima Suprema, Ms Sherry Strudel. I felt
honoured to be in her company. I so wanted the chance to speak to her,
girl to girl, one on one, to ask her about her life in the world of
opera. But there were a dozen of us around the table, and the talk was
mostly ‘small’. Sir kept Ms Strudel entertained, lavishing his attention
and charm on her. I could not demand conversation with such important
persons. I knew my place.
Instead, I asked Fiona how her massage with Brian had been. She said “It
was fine. Fine.” For a moment, I wondered whether I had asked an
inappropriate question. Then I realised she was colouring an impressive
shade of blush pink and seemed flustered. Serafina grinned and said,
“I think it’s safe to say that Fiona will be back for more of Brian
We continued the small talk during lunch, chatting about what we were
going to do for the afternoon. Serafina and Fiona said they would try
out the Fitness Centre. That was really not my idea of fun. I decided
instead to have a manicure and pedicure, and elaborate decoration of my
nails, in the Beauty Salon, and then spend the rest of the afternoon
chilling on the balcony of my State Room, perhaps reading my novel, and
allowing Bobby Lasagna attend to my every need, resting before the
evening's festivities began.
Or perhaps not quite every need.
I rather like the sound of this Brian Taffy character....not to mention
the attractive Bobby Lasagna
Mrs T xx
Blimey! How the other half live. Off tomorrow to the National Theatre
Prague to do Jenufa, apparently live for the, wait for it, British
Broadcasting Corporation among others.
Smoked salmon, scrambled egg? First percussion will have a bowl of
soup before this epic event.
I thought I digressed but I am beginning to wonder.....
Alan M. Watkins
But of course in my version you'd get to read the romantic subplot
concerning how lovely blonde Fiona's cruel father forces her to reject
the marriage proposal of her beloved Brian on grounds that he is merely
the penniless working-class son of a sheep farmer and far beneath her
in social rank. Driven to despair, Brian knocks over every chair,
table and sunlounger on the promenade deck and then threatens to shoot
himself during what is undoubtedly the musical highlight of the cruise
- namely the Grand G&S Gala Concert starring the renowned American
soprano Sherry Strudel. However, in a surprise turn of events it is
suddenly revealed that due to an NHS blunder 39 years ago in the
maternity ward, Brian Taffy was accidentally switched with another baby
and given to the wrong family. The other infant is none other than
Captain SJ Turner, who is also 39 years old of course. Brian is now
revealed as the rightful son of Lord Darcy of Pemberley and heir to a
hundred thousand a year and a large estate in Derbyshire. Naturally a
big white wedding follows - with Serafina, Donna and Sherry as
bridesmaids and fifteen pages of colour photos in next week's edition
of Hello magazine........
Can't help thinking people would rather read your smutty version
though, La Donna........
Mrs T xx
La Donna Mobile wrote:
> I woke slowly. Against my naked skin was the sensual feel of crisp fresh
> quality linen. To feel it caress my skin made me shiver in delight. I
> had been woken out of a beautiful dream about Plácido. I told myself I
> had no need to dream, to live in my imagination. I was finally having an
> adventure. I stretched luxuriously revelling in a bed with a firmer
> mattress than I had ever slept on before.
> Light streamed into my bedroom - my suite. The butler was opening the
> navy shorts, that showed off his assets to great advantage -
> Then Captain Turner - Sir - introduced me to the guest of honour at the
I hope she will continue.
"Silverfin" <goog...@finesilver.info> wrote in message
Someone, and I am embarrassed not to remember the name right now, wrote a
book without the letter "e" - one of the French nouvelle vague, I thought,
but maybe not.
"Silverfin" <goog...@finesilver.info> wrote in message
You're a bit good at this... not your first time, I presume?
"Gadsby" (1939) by Ernest Vincent Wright.
Wright also eschewed abbreviations which would, if expanded or spoken, use
the letter "e", as well as numerals greater than six and less than thirty.
And, of course, the story ended with "Finis" instead of "The End".
Isy for you to say!
Try this one, too:
Alan, offTopic for this thread, of course, but I'm going to Prague in
November. Regrettably, I didn't check the schedule at the opera so my
only opportunity is Butterfly (Nov. 15th) - I cannot (easily) change the
Will you be playing? Any comment on the cast?
The cast is (if I understood it correctly):
* Conductor: F. Drs
* Stage director: K. Jernek
* Set designer: O. Šimáček
* Costume designer: O. Filipi
* Madama Butterfly (Cio-Cio-San): K. Teshima, E. Dřízgová (which?)
* Suzuki, her maid: A. Kalivodová
* Kate Pinkerton: J. Levicová
* F.B. Pinkerton, navy officer: T. Černý
* Sharpless, US consul in Nagasaki: M. Bárta
* Goro, match-maker: J. Hruška
* Prince Yamadori: M. Matoušek
* Uncle Bonzo: O. Korotkov
* Yakuside: N. Nikolov
* Imperial commissar: R. Vocel,
* Librarian: S. Lehmann
* Mother of Cio-Cio-San: L. Jereminová
* Aunt: L. Hilscherová
* Cousin: D. Radosa
(?) Somewhere else it says:
Madama Butterfly (Cio-Cio-San): La, K.-H.
- what? who?
This house has yet to discover the credit card. Or, rather, they know
about it but refuse to accept it. "Admission to the Prague State Opera
can only be paid in cash."
If you go to
you can order tickets both for the National theatre, its subsidiary the
Estates theatre (the theatre where Don G. was first performed and which
was prominently featured in the Losey film) and the State Opera with an
option to pay by credit card via the net. The page is however
unreliable, and I ended up with the alternative to pay with my credit
card when arriving in Prague (on Oct. 4th, to see le Nozze on the 6th at
the Estates theatre).
© Geraldine Curtis 2005
(Worksafe: even Freya North doesn't have raw sex in every chapter...)
Although dinner was not until seven, I was ready before six o’clock.
Ready, and anxiously scrutinising my appearance in the mirror. I barely
recognised myself in my new evening dress. I thought it was gorgeous –
chocolate coloured silk, sleeveless, plunging neckline and a
semi-diaphanous skirt. And it suited me. But, at the end of the day, it
was from Marks and Sparks. I was only too conscious that there were some
seriously rich people on board for whom M&S would be too common. But to
me, it was a glamour I had never previously experienced.
I decided the best way to conquer my nerves was to venture into the
heart of the ship. I had been on board a musical cruise for nearly
twenty-four hours and had not yet experienced any of the live music. I
consulted my information pack and realised that the ship’s cellist was
due to give a pre-dinner recital with piano accompaniment any minute in
the piano bar. I do so love the sound of the cello. And this was all
part of what I had paid for.
The cello recital was pleasant, if brief. It was annoying that there was
no announcement of which pieces were being played, and some were
familiar but I could not place them. I did recognise a Faure Sicilienne
and some Schumann and Mendelssohn. I was very conscious that it was
probably not concert-hall standard, and certainly not Rostropovich,
Tortelier or even Isserlis. But it was rather beautiful to hear the rich
plangent tones of the cello in an intimate setting, in a bar, no less.
At dinner I found myself in delightful conversation with an interesting
group of people. It seemed that some of them knew each other, whilst
others, like me, were travelling alone. The group was friendly to us
lonesome people, although inevitably, they occasionally fell into ‘in’
I was almost overwhelmed by the amount of food served up. I had been
warned that on cruises the only thing to do is to eat, eat and then eat
again. With pauses in between for drinking. I had also been warned that
the food was not necessarily very good – a little like hotel food, it
caters for the lowest common denominator of taste. Little chance of
Vindaloo or even a chicken tikka masala.
But I though the feast was sumptuous. I think there were eight courses,
although I rather lost count. Hors d’oeuvres, a starter and soup, and
then a sorbet before we even reached the main course. And after pudding
we had cheese and biscuits, and petits fours, and coffee and liqueurs,
to follow on from a complex sequence of wines. I did not think I would
ever eat again.
There was still some time before the highlight of the evening, for me at
any rate, a recital by the wonderful Sherry Strudel. At a loose end, I
found myself in the Havana Bar. I felt self-conscious, it seemed that
everyone in there, except me was male. Many of them were enjoying an
after-dinner cigar. I hesitated and nearly walked away, recalling all
those Victorian novels, where the ladies were expected to retire whilst
the gentlemen relaxed with cigars and port (and probably shared bawdy
stories and burped freely). I thought that maybe I would be breaching
etiquette by entering the Havana Bar. But emboldened by drink – not that
I was drunk, I had been careful – I concluded that there was no sign
saying ‘Men Only’. And certainly I did not sense any hostility. A
handsome gentleman offered me a cigar. “Cuban,” he said gleefully.
“We’re not suppose to smoke these back home.” I assumed ‘home’ to be
I hesitated, but then thought “Why not!” My uncle had been a cigar
smoker, and I had always loved the smell, even as a child. As a
teenager, when my parents weren’t looking, he would let me have the
occasional drag. I resolved that when I was an adult, I would be a cigar
smoker. It had always seemed so unfair that it was just not the done
thing for women to smoke cigars, not unless they wanted to be thought
dykes. And I didn’t.
A man with a cigar is sexy. One of the most erotic scenes in any film is
in Carmen, my Plácido with a cigar. And my companion, my new friend, was
certainly sexy. I like older men. Confident without the arrogant need to
prove himself. Wise. Witty. I asked him who he was. Enigmatically, he
replied that he was a reporter, of a sort. I was intrigued as to what
sort, but he explained that it was essential that nobody ever knew his
real identity. I was intrigued. Handsome, charming, and an International
Man of Mystery. Idly, I wondered whether I should try to get him to know
him better. Who am I trying to kid? I was wondering whether I should
try to seduce him. I was disappointed when he made reference to his
wife, a sweet little minx. For a moment, I hoped that maybe she was back
home and he was a lone traveller. But then he mentioned that she was in
the shipboard library. I hope my disappointment was not too obvious on
He observed that it would soon be time for Ms Strudel’s recital to
begin, and suggested we walked together to the Belvedere Club. Almost as
an afterthought, he said “I guess Mrs Li…my wife will join us momentarily.”
We had a good vantage point for the vocal recital. I glanced around and
saw some faces that already seemed familiar. Captain Simon J Turner –
Sir – seemed engrossed in conversation with Norton Gatling and JohnJim
Garden. I was surprised that a lifeguard and a barman were permitted to
mingle with the officer class and guests for the evening’s
entertainment, but what did I know? I nodded or smiled at people who
greeted me, but I was hesitant to treat them as bosom friends when we
were, after all, just slight acquaintances. I noticed Serafina looking a
bit lost, and with no sign of her friend Fiona. I tried unsuccessfully
to catch her eye to suggest she joined me and the charming American
reporter – of a sort – who would, no doubt, soon be joined by his wife.
The recital began. I was so unbelievably excited. A real Opera Star! Of
course, I had heard many singers live, but never anybody which such a
name and reputation, and such a posterity of recordings. I was
trembling. I did wonder whether she would sing any Wagner. After all,
she was due to sing Sieglinde in Pyongyang later in the month, and again
in Bishkek in the New Year. And this was, indeed, a German ship. But it
takes chutzpah to include Wagner in a recital intended as light
I did not know the first song, but my delightful companion whispered
that it was by Samuel Barber. I decided not to mention that the only
Barber I knew was the ubiquitous Adagio. From there she launched into a
range of familiar arias – Casta Diva, Una voce poca fa, Io son l'umile
ancella, I Know that my Redeemer liveth, and Mild und leise, amongst
She took a pause halfway through, and the pianist played an interlude of
something or other. It was nice enough, and received warm applause, but
it merely served as a contrast to the main event. She brought the
recital to a fantastic finale with E strano ... Follie! ... Sempre
libera. I was just blown away, this was singing like I had never heard,
live, before. I just love live music. I love my CDs, too, but the
atmosphere of a live performance is unbeatable.
Although most of the audience was applauding warmly enough, I wondered
whether most had truly appreciated it as I had done. I was moved to my
feet, applauding wildly. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the fat,
ugly man I had met at the Lido Bar earlier that day. He, too, was
applauding wildly. I felt uncomfortable – it seems to tarnish something
when you realise you share the enthusiasm with someone you find
repellent. Not that it was necessarily wise to judge someone so quickly.
But I trusted my instincts.
I decided to take some air on deck, and when I returned to the bar, I
was surprised to find it nearly deserted. I checked the event schedule,
but there was no more entertainment for the evening. I thought maybe if
I sat in a discrete corner I would not look as if I was on the pull. I
was glad I had my novel in my bag.
I had not been sitting for long when a female voice said, “Do you mind
if I join you?” I looked up and to my surprise I realised that it was
her, Sherry Strudel, asking to join me. I found myself blushing. And
trembling. Of course I didn’t mind!
She called a waiter over and suggested we shared a bottle of champagne.
I felt awkward, not knowing what to say. To my surprise, she seemed shy.
I had assumed that people in the public eye were used to dealing with
fans, the public. But I suppose they have the same self-doubts and
vulnerabilities as the rest of us. She asked me my name. For some
strange reason, I decided to say “Gilda…”
“Care nome,” she said softly, and gave me a smile, a smile that made me
feel warm inside. I found this woman to be beautiful. I smiled back,
suddenly quite shy myself.
For a while, we chatted, shyly, cautiously. She asked me a few questions
about myself, I answered, truthfully, but economically. There was no
need for anyone on this ship to know my real background. It wasn’t lying
to say that I lived in an apartment in SouthWest London. I was conscious
that the conversation was all about me, and I knew that was rude.
Apologetically, I commented on this, adding that I would love to ask her
so many questions about life as a diva. Modestly, she said “I’m not a
diva, I’m a singer, it’s what I do for a living.” She shrugged.
I persisted. “I have this image, this preconception, that the world of
opera is glamorous.”
“That’s what we want you to think,” she said. “When you go to the Opera
House, you want to escape into another world, an illusion, a fantasy.
You don’t want to know about the greasepaint, the dusty sets, the
bitchiness backstage, the egos, the hours of tedium sitting around
rehearsals, the loneliness of life on the road –or the sea,” she added,
glancing towards the window.
Then she seemed to freeze. “It’s him!” she hissed. A steeliness had
entered her voice and she seemed to go white. She took a hurried sip of
champagne. “It’s gone flat!” she said angrily.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, concerned.
“It’s him. It’s Gaaby Boccapinhead. My nemesis.”
“Oh, I see,” I said, although I didn’t.
“I thought…I thought I was safe from him. He’s dangerous…” Suddenly, the
room felt icy.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “How’s he dangerous?”
“I thought he was a fan, but he’s obsessed…”
“There’s a fine line between fandom and obsession,” I observed, thinking
back to my bedsit in Tooting Bec, lined as it was with pictures of
Plácido. My sister, on her rare fleeting visits tells me I’m obsessed.
“No there isn’t!” I was shocked. This lady, who just a few minutes ago
had seemed so serene and sweet, was almost spitting fire.
I took a deep breath. “The thing is, Ms Strudel, most of us, most of the
time, are stuck in jobs we don’t especially like, doing the same
repetitive thing, frustrated, wondering what life’s about. As you said,
when we go the opera, we want to escape from the mundane. The characters
are magic, and we build you singers up to be heroes. I am a big fan of
Plácido Domingo. When I’m having a bad day at work, it’s a comfort to
know when I get home, I can pop a DVD or CD on, and become absorbed in
the performance, enjoy the music, luxuriate in the gorgeousness of his
She managed a smile. “But that’s normal!” she exclaimed.
“And, um, I often have fantasies about him. You know, like, sexual
She chuckled. “I think a lot of women do, you know…!”
“But if you think about it, it’s not really normal. It is a bit
obsessive,” I said.
“I’m sure Pláci doesn’t mind,” she said. “There’s no harm in what you
do.” She paused. “Is there?” she asked abruptly. “How many times have
you met him?” she asked hesitantly.
“Never,” I admitted. “I wish…”
“And he’s a big strong guy. He can look after himself. I’m a woman, a
vulnerable woman. And Gaaby Boccapinhead plays on my vulnerability.”
I could see she was disturbed. “Look,” I said, “if you want to talk
about it, I’m a good listener. But if you’d rather not, well, it’s none
of my business…”
She sighed. “It’s a long story. And it started a long time ago. No, it’s
probably best if I do talk about it. But not here. I feel a bit jumpy,
as if he’s watching me. I don’t know where he went. But I’m paranoid
that he’s somewhere. Can we go to your suite – I’d feel a lot safer
there, feel more able to talk?”
I agreed that that would be a good idea. When we got to my suite, she
immediately spotted the framed picture of Plácido I had placed on the
coffee table. She paused to look at it, and smiled, the first time her
eyes had lit up since she had spotted this Gaaby Boccapinhead character.
I suggested we got another bottle of champagne. For a moment she
hesitated; then she said, “Oh why not!”
I summoned the butler, hoping that I would see Bobbie Lasagna again. I
was disappointed that he wasn’t him bringing the champagne, but a
well-built, somewhat swarthy man, who introduced himself as Marshall
Allwood. I suppressed a childish giggle at his unfortunate name. He
opened the champagne, and poured it into our glasses, asking how we
wanted the French windows onto the verandah, adjusting the
air-conditioning. I could not help thinking that his name suited his
awkwardness in moving.
Finally, he left Sherry and me alone, for Sherry to tell me the tale of
Mrs Terfel wrote:
>It's a good job that I'm not involved with writing this story,
>otherwise everyone would suddenly start talking like characters out of
>a Jane Austen novel and there would be no smut whatsoever.
>But of course in my version you'd get to read the romantic subplot
>concerning how lovely blonde Fiona's cruel father forces her to reject
>the marriage proposal of her beloved Brian on grounds that he is merely
>the penniless working-class son of a sheep farmer and far beneath her
>in social rank. Driven to despair, Brian knocks over every chair,
>table and sunlounger on the promenade deck and then threatens to shoot
>himself during what is undoubtedly the musical highlight of the cruise
>- namely the Grand G&S Gala Concert starring the renowned American
>soprano Sherry Strudel. However, in a surprise turn of events it is
>suddenly revealed that due to an NHS blunder 39 years ago in the
>maternity ward, Brian Taffy was accidentally switched with another baby
>and given to the wrong family. The other infant is none other than
>Captain SJ Turner, who is also 39 years old of course.
So Sir now has to become quickly familiar with sheep???
>Brian is now
>revealed as the rightful son of Lord Darcy of Pemberley and heir to a
>hundred thousand a year and a large estate in Derbyshire. Naturally a
>big white wedding follows - with Serafina, Donna and Sherry as
>bridesmaids and fifteen pages of colour photos in next week's edition
>of Hello magazine........
Just beware the curse of Hello. I'd go for Okay, that's what Posh and
Becks did. And Jordan and Thingy. Much more classy
>Can't help thinking people would rather read your smutty version
>though, La Donna........
>Mrs T xx
"La Donna Mobile" <ladonn...@REMOVEbrixton.fsworld.co.uk> wrote in
> Chapter Two
> Š Geraldine Curtis 2005
Of course, I knew nothing about the Gadsby book, and wonder what it's
"LJO" <seniorcu...@earthlink.net> wrote in message
"La Donna Mobile" <ladonn...@REMOVEbrixton.fsworld.co.uk> wrote in message news:dhhuq9$7sf$4...@nwrdmz01.dmz.ncs.ea.ibs-infra.bt.com...
OMG the second part is hysterically funny!!!!!!
As usual. But it was only "Gadsby" that sprang to mind as a work that omits
all icons twixt d and f.
> Of course, I knew nothing about the Gadsby book, and wonder what it's
It's about 50,000 words. Go to:
Did you find out how to get that thing (ticketportal.cz) in English?
In 2003 I bought through some independant vendor. Through the web, I
think (with credit card). I had to pick up the tickets in an office
downtown, and pay an additional amount for every ticket <grumble>. When
I ordered I didn't even realize that I didn't buy directly from "Statni
Opera", so tried to pick up my tickets at the opera! After some help
from someone being able to translate from my receipt printout (in
English) I was given further directions ...
Ah...poor Marshall Allwood - the only waiter on this cruise ship that
our tarty heroine *hasn't* wanted to seduce.
I fear dear Mr Allwood may be in considerable danger of being mistaken
for a rather overpriced piece of South American furniture and getting
knocked over by Brian Taffy....
Mrs T xx
"LJO" <seniorcu...@earthlink.net> wrote in message
"La Donna Mobile" <ladonn...@REMOVEbrixton.fsworld.co.uk> wrote in message news:dhna07$l9v$1...@nwrdmz01.dmz.ncs.ea.ibs-infra.bt.com...
Shocked, disgusted and horrified to read such filthy smut.
When do we get Chapter 4???
Mrs T xx
P.S: Who else was in the threesome? You, Sherry and Marshall Allwood
Although if this story ends happily with a wedding then I reserve the
right to a nice dress and a pretty tiara. (And so does Bryn)
Mrs T xx
Mrs Terfel wrote:
Possibly Marta - ''Víbora'' - might have something to say about that...
Anybody know if trolls can swim???
Mrs T xx
The page is really a shambles, but if you click on the little Union Jack
in the upper right corner much of the text transsubstantiates into a
rather awkward English, (may be translated by some Taiwanese with
experience from translating user manuals.
One of the reasons I love her so...
Thanks - I missed that flag!
"Bohemia Ticket" might be an option, or the hotel, or ...
Donna stepped out of the shower, her mind still reeling from her
passionate encounter with Sherry on the sofa. She had been on the
ship for days now, but so far her original plan of shagging as many men
as possible had not exactly been a success. She felt so frustrated
that it was driving her crazy. If only she had the courage to go to
Sherry's suite and beg her to finish what she had started. But she
was unsure of herself and confused by these strange new feelings that
Sherry's caresses had aroused in her. Fantasizing about Placi just
wasn't enough - she needed a real person . Even if just for ten
minutes. But it was 2am and what were the chances of someone suddenly
knocking on her door with the intention of throwing her down and
shagging her senseless?
She went to the bedroom and put on a satin dressing gown. Suddenly she
was startled to hear a timid knock at her door. Who could it possibly
"Entrez!" she called out, leaning her body against the table in
what she hoped was a seductive pose.
It was Marshall Allwood, the waiter who had so kindly escorted Sherry
back to her suite some fifteen minutes earlier. Donna looked at him
and smiled. OK, he wasn't exactly ideal but she needed someone -
anyone. Besides, she found his clumsiness rather cute and his Latin
looks and accent reminded her of a younger version of Placido. If she
closed her eyes then she could imagine he was the true love of her
"Senora, is there anything I can do for you?" he asked, perfectly
"As a matter of fact, there is" she smiled, undoing her dressing
gown and letting it fall to the floor.
He needed no further encouragement. Marshall rushed towards her, his
passion unhindered by the three chairs that stood in his path. He
merely sent the furniture crashing to the floor and a few seconds later
was in her arms, crushing her against the wall in a fervent embrace.
"Oh Marshall," she sighed, "I want you - take me now!"
She could feel something pushing against her, something so hard that
it was almost wooden....
He picked her up and carried her towards the sofa, inadvertently
knocking over the coffee table and the vase of roses, which smashed
onto the ground into a thousand pieces. She could see that the coffee
table was broken too but she was too turned on to even care...
"Adieu, notre petite table...." she sighed.
(To be continued) ...............
I'm sure La Donna will be very happy to continue from where I've left
off, and she'll no doubt do a much better job of it than me, who is
rather inexperienced when it comes to writing smutty stories..........
Mrs T xx
Mrs Terfel wrote:
Excise me, is this the coffee table with the framed picture of Pláci on it?
>I'm sure La Donna will be very happy to continue from where I've left
>off, and she'll no doubt do a much better job of it than me, who is
>rather inexperienced when it comes to writing smutty stories..........
>Mrs T xx
It was one of the Mrs Terfel trolls.........honest
Mrs T xx
I did not wake early in the morning; when I did, I did not feel great. I
could only manage a liquid breakfast – lots of coffee and apple juice,
although Bobby Lasagne did try and persuade me to eat a banana. Looking
at him again through the bleary eyes of a hangover, he did not seem
quite so attractive as he had a day earlier. Or perhaps I had moved on a
long way in those twenty four hours.
I felt that the only thing I could manage was to lie under shade by the
Pool, with heavy sunglasses shading my eyes from the brightness of the
sun. But when I reached the Pool, To my dismay, I realised that there
was activity going on. I squinted at the notice board: “Aquarobics with
Stuart Barkingside”. Aquarobics seemed far too energetic for me. On any
day, not just today. I squinted at the youngish man who was leading a
group of pensioners through their paces. I could see that he had a fine
body, in particular a muscular hairy chest. I could look at him and,
objectively judge him to be attractive, yet I could shrug my shoulders
and think ‘so what’. I had geared myself on this trip to keep an eye out
for tasty men. Perhaps it was my hangover, or perhaps there were other
aspects of last night that had affected me.
The water looked inviting, but I really could not face what looked like
forced merriment, and aquarobics. I decided to wander along to the Spa
and see if I could book a massage. I was in luck: Jeremy Funlay would be
free in half an hour. Whilst I was waiting I flicked through a magazine,
until the man sitting opposite me struck up conversation, introducing
himself as Rick. I immediately thought Casablanca, probably because of
his resemblance to a young Humphrey Bogart. He said had been in the
Fitness Centre and was booked for a sauna shortly. I did not want to
admit that I had never been in a sauna. I quite fancied doing so, but
was not sure what the etiquette was: perhaps I could make discrete
enquiries with one of the staff.
Soon it was time for my massage. I was nervous. But Jeremy Funlay soon
put me at ease. Such a soothing voice and a gentle manner. When I had
undressed and was in a robe, he suggested that I lay down on my front
At first, I could not relax. I was almost naked, and being massaged - by
a man. There was a part of me of me that felt that there was something
a bit kinky about this, but people at work who had been on holiday to
exotic locations had mentioned the availability of massages on the
beaches at the hotel pools, and in many locations it was generally done
by men. I suppose that was why the massage room was so open – to make it
clear that it was purely therapeutic, to avoid misunderstandings. I
suppose there would be some sleazy people who would, misunderstand –
deliberately? – the purpose of the massage.
I felt his strong fingers stroking my back, firm strokes pushing up my
spine and sweeping round below my neck and round to my lower back. Then,
he pushed the heels of his hands up my spine. In a way it hurt, but it
was a pleasant hurt. Softly, he told me I had a lot of tension in my
muscles. I could feel his hands glide along the oil that was soaking
into my skin, warming me. Then, I felt his thumbs working on the muscles
near my ribcage. Slowly I began to relax, no longer conscious of the
environment, blocking out the sound of passing conversation, just
wallowing in the sensuality of feeling these safe warm hands playing
with my body, and his voice caressing my ears.
He moved down to my legs, circular strokes on my calves, which are one
of the most sensitive parts of my body. As his hands caressed then I
felt myself quivering, almost trembling. I wanted him to stay for ever
caressing my calves, but I wanted him to move higher.
I could tell that his massage of my thighs was highly professional. His
hands concentrated on the main muscle down the back of my thighs. As he
worked higher, I so wanted his hand to slip, accidentally or
deliberately. I wanted to ask him to let his hand slip: just the thought
of his hands caressing the inside of my thighs made me damp with
excitement. Softly, he asked whether I wanted a buttock massage. I
stammered a yes in reply. Oh, did I want that! First he moved his hands
quickly, sending a pulsing vibrating feeling through my body. Then he
slowed to a deep but slow stroke. That was amazing! I was fearful that I
would start to respond in an obvious physical way. But I did not want to
hold back, I wanted to lose control. I did not care who was watching.
This was an amazing physical experience!
He suggested that I turned over. I was a little nervous. Perhaps now I
would have to look him in the eye. I had not been so intimate with a man
for a long time. Not for real, anyway. In my dreams, of course.
But I complied. I could hardly refuse. It was wonderful what he did to
the front of my calves, pushing up the muscles, making my blood zing
round my body. Up past my knees, up my thigh. I took a deep breath – how
far would he go? Not far enough, as his hands turned and worked the
muscle downward. He did this five, maybe six times. Each time I hoped he
would go higher, each time I knew he wouldn’t. This was better than any
sex I had ever had. My body was consumed with sensuality, my head empty
of all thoughts except what was happening in my body. And the man stood
just inches from eyes. What a beautiful sight to match the beautiful
He asked me whether I wanted a chest massage. I wished the treatment
centre was not open plan. Of course I anted a chest massage. I would
instruct him not to careful where he put his hands; as far as I was
concerned, no part of my body was out of reach. But I did not think I
would be able to control myself. “Maybe another time,” I stammered
nervously. He helped me down off the treatment table and I donned my
robe. As I was about to walk back to the changing area, I shyly asked,
“Do you ever get passengers asking for a more…personal…treatment?”
“Yeah!” he replied. “But there are strict rules…” He paused. “In working
hours…” My heart skipped a beat. Was he suggesting, implying? I was not
sure how to react!
It was nearly lunchtime, but still suffering the remnants of my
hangover, and feeling strangely enervated after the massage I could not
face the formal sit-down of the main restaurant. I knew that light
snacks were available in the Lido Bar.
When I arrived there, JohnJim Garden and Ronald Vee were behind the bar,
looking bored. There were not many people there, but I recognised the
dashing reporter from the previous evening, and Rick, with whom I had
spoken earlier. With them were two of the men who had been at my dinner
table last night. I remembered one was called Professor Charisma. The
reporter chap beckoned to me and invited me to join them. That was very
kind of them, I did feel as though as I was intruding. But it turned out
that they were as much strangers to each other as they were to me. It
was rather nice the way we were all making friendships so quickly.
Having forgotten the other chap’s name, I was relieved when the
Professor addressed him as Robert.
They all departed after lunch, and I was at a loose end. There would be
another day after today on board, before we had an excursion in Sinop. I
didn’t know much about Sinop, other than it was the birthplace of
Diogenes. But I was eager to learn.
As I had my swimsuit with me, I felt I might as well take a dip in the
pool. I noticed that the aquarobics instructor from the morning, Stuart
Barkingside, was still there, in conversation with Norton Gatling.
Together they made a fine pair. I have an eye for handsome men myself,
(I look, but I never touch) but I couldn’t help thinking that it would
be a delight for gay men. I wasn’t sure if there were any gay men
aboard. There was one or two that I thought might be. Still, they could
have Norton and Stuart, as far as I was concerned, I would be most happy
with Jeremy Funlay.
And then there were those two gorgeous barmen, JohnJim and Ronald. I
wondered where Amber George was. Ronald commented that she had cancelled
today, she was indisposed.
When I emerged from the changing area, wearing just my bikini, JohnJim
approached me. As he spoke to me, I could not help notice his eyelashes.
They were so dusky. I found the way they swept his face, and framed his
penetrating brown eyes to be so alluring. He was a good looking man, no
question, although perhaps a little precious for my tastes. And, when he
spoke, his voice seemed surprisingly high pitched. I noticed he had a
small Paddington Bear badge on his jacket. “Cute,” I thought.
And he had something to say to me. He seemed apologetic and embarrassed,
as he explained that it would be sensible if I didn’t remove my bikini
top. He understood that many Ladies liked to do so, but, it seemed to
offend some people. I have to say I was a bit upset; if men could do so,
I did feel that women should be able to, as well. Just round the
swimming pool, of course, it would be entirely inappropriate elsewhere.
But I thought it better not to argue.
I had a splash around in the pool, discovering that floating on my back
and letting my head sink below the horizontal of my body was doing
marvels for my hangover, which was now all but gone. But I bored all too
soon, and decided that I would retire to my sun-lounger and try and
catch up on Jilly Cooper’s tale of murder on the Don Carlos film-set. I
really wasn’t making much progress.
I had managed a chapter when a voice asked whether I minded him joining
me. It was the man I had seen yesterday, the one who had called me a
whore. I was not sure I wanted him to join me, but perhaps he was here
to make peace. So I nodded, and he pulled his chair up close to mine. He
didn’t introduce himself, which struck me as odd. It was almost a
shipboard ritual that everybody introduced themselves on meeting.
“It took a lot of effort for me to get here,” he said, pensively.
“Oh yeah?” I asked, dreading this. He was the MS Eureka’s version of the
pub bore, I’ll bet.
“It hasn’t been easy,” he continued. “The past few years. I'm a
“Isn’t that fear of farmers?” I asked, absent-mindedly.
He looked furious. “No! It’s a serious illness. It’s an inability to
leave the house.”
“My apologies, schoolgirl Latin. Agricola. Fourth declension, if I
remember rightly. Or was it an exception to the rule that first
declension is female.”
He glared at me. “I was forced to stay in my apartment. For years I
never went out. There was I, living in Boston, not in some small-town
nightmare, but Boston. Massachusetts,” he added, presumably in case I
thought he meant Boston, Lincolnshire.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said sympathetically. “So, it’s a real
victory that you’re here – so far from home. I suppose a ship must be
safe – it’s not like you have to wander round strange places, finding
your way, dealing with foreign languages and customs.”
“I’m here for a reason,” he said. “A specific reason. She broke my
heart. She ruined my life.”
“A woman?” I asked.
“Yes, the only woman for me. My angel, the most beautiful woman in the
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Sometimes, though, that’s the way things are.
People move on, things come to an end.”
“She was the only woman I loved, and she I loved her like no one has
ever done before. And what she did to me was plain pure evil…”
“She, that bitch, that angel, she did it. She put a restraining order on
me. She had me locked away in the asylum. I was not allowed to leave the
States. I was not allowed within a hundred miles of her.”
“But you’re recovering now,” I said soothingly. “You’re enjoying the
“I’m here with one purpose in mind and one only. I want her back in my
life. She will come back to me. And this time, she will marry me. The
bitch. The angel. My love.”
I was feeling uneasy. This did not seem right. Restraining orders,
asylum…maybe the woman over-reacted. But I would guess, Massachusetts,
that’s quite a liberal state, that’s where Ally McBeal’s based. They
wouldn’t just lock someone away, not for no reason. I was about to ask
him more about the woman, perhaps she was on board the ship, perhaps I
ought to warn her. No, it wasn’t my problem. Maybe I should speak to the
captain. My head was hurting again. This time, I don’t think it was
anything to do with last night’s champagne.
We were disturbed by a commotion. Two men arguing, ferociously, at the
tops of their voices. I tried to make out what the argument was about. I
realised that the men were Brian Taffy, the ‘other’ masseur and Bobby
Lasagne, one of my butlers. Brian looked furious. In his anger, he
kicked over a chair. I half expected it to fall into the pool, as had
happened the previous day with Norton. But it just fell over. Then Amber
George, the barmaid who was ‘indisposed’ came along and started yelling
My companion expressed his disgust that the staff should put on such a
display in front of the guests. He was going to complain. “Whatever,” I
said. It was a useful distraction. I really wanted to get away from this
“I’m going to the bar,” I said.
“I shall go straight to the top man and complain,” he said.
“Yeah, you do that,” I encouraged him, and made my escape. I ended up in
the Clipper Lounge on Deck 4. I thought I would have a cup of tea,
having decided I would never drink again. Out of the corner of my eye I
spotted Fiona. She looked distraught, I could see she was crying. I
wondered whether I should go over and comfort her. But I was not sure I
could cope with being Agony Aunt to everybody on the ship. On the other
hand, she did look upset.
I was still dithering when I saw Sherry walking into the bar. Memories
of last night came flooding back. I wondered how she felt. I think I
would like to go there again, maybe take it further, but, perhaps, in
the cold light of day, it did not seem such a good idea to her. After
all, she was a Superstar Soprano, and me, well, I was just Blue Collar
Donna from Tooting Bec.
Sherry walked over to me, I smiled, a smile of welcome, a smile to
signify that I certainly wasn’t having second thoughts after last night.
To my horror, she looked furious.
“You traitor!” she exclaimed. “You treacherous little…!”
I think my jaw fell open in surprise. I stammered. “I-I-I d-d-don’t
“You were to talking to – HIM!”
I wracked my brain, going over all the men I had spoken to that day. All
had been casual conversations. Except for Jeremy Funlay, of course.
Maybe she had the hots for Jeremy; it wouldn’t be surprising.
“What did you tell Boccapinhead? Did you tell him what I told you last
might? Did you tell him about us? Was he getting all sweaty and creepy
as you told him what we did? He’s such a pervert - he’d get his rocks
off that way.”
“Boccapinhead?” I asked, confused. Then, slowly, I began to process
“That man you were with at the pool,” she said venomously.
“Oh my god – that was Boccapinhead. I had no idea…if I had, oh shit.
Honest, I promise, I didn’t say anything to him at all. Certainly not
about you. Definitely not about us.” I thought rapidly. It was all
beginning to make frightening sense. I would not be surprised if she was
the woman who had put the restraining order on him, had him committed.
And now he was back, wanting her back. And if he didn’t get her back,
would he take his revenge? And was I in danger?
“We need to talk,” I said firmly.
Look, I said I'm sorry about breaking the coffee table with the photo
of Placi on it, ok??? I'll buy you another one for Christmas....
> "It hasn't been easy," he continued. "The past few years. I'm a
> diagnosed agoraphobic."
> "Isn't that fear of farmers?" I asked, absent-mindedly.
(Mrs Terfel falls off her chair from laughing so much.....)
>>> We were disturbed by a commotion. Two men arguing, ferociously, at the
> tops of their voices. I tried to make out what the argument was about. I
> realised that the men were Brian Taffy, the 'other' masseur and Bobby
> Lasagne, one of my butlers.
Gosh, has Fiona been having a secret affair with Bobby behind Brian's
back??? No wonder that silly cow Amber's upset too.
La Donna - you are much better than Jilly Cooper. You've clearly
missed your true vocation in life.
Mrs T xx
“Isn’t that fear of farmers?” I asked, absent-mindedly
I was once having a conversation with someone, and she said that her
brother had "been inside for the last 3 years".
"What, is he agoraphobic?" I asked, with genuine concern.
Well, if Fiona treats Brian too badly perhaps Serafina will comfort
> La Donna - you are much better than Jilly Cooper. You've clearly
> missed your true vocation in life.
If I remember rightly, Serafina is only allowed to comfort Brian if
Fiona is no longer interested in him and has given her friend written
Mrs T xx
> Mrs T xx
Jilly already has her revenge planned
"At Bagley Hall, fashionable alma mater to many dashing and glamorous
denizens of Larkshire, including Rupert Campbell-Black's children,
trouble is afoot. The ambitious and fatally attractive headmaster,
Hengist Brett-Taylor, hatches a plan to share the highly superior
facilities of his school with the students at Larkminster Comprehensive
- known locally, as 'Larks'. His reasons for doing so are purely
financial, but he is encouraged by the opportunities the scheme gives
him for frequent meetings with Janna Curtis, the dynamic new head of
Larks, who has been drafted in to save what is a fast-sinking school
from closure. Janna is young, pretty, enthusiastic, determined - and
she will do anything to rescue her demoralised, run-down and
Mrs T xx
Only teasing... Even my fictional self wouldn't dream of laying a
finger on your ficitonal man.
xSilverfin (aka. Serafina)
I once worked with a hea