Booby Fellatio – aka Lady Berengaria Hermione Agnes Horton-cum-Studley – is a fictional character, who has appeared in my sixth book, entitled ‘Booby Fellatio’s Lockdown Diary’. She is, as the late Sir Terry Pratchett put it, a lady of negotiable affection – and, though well past the first flush of youth (and the second!), manages to attract a bevy of beauteous youths…

This is an extract from a short story (which can be read in full in the above book) entitled ‘Booby gets stuck’:

‘Dearly beloveds! A prostrated Booby here, reduced to a limp rag after a most trying afternoon. My dears, I came within a capillary of blushing, something I have not done (sex-flush apart) since my early teens…

Rude interruption from my tactless nemesis/nursemaid, Helga (I dictate; she scribes – which is as it should be), bleating on about hot flushes and other menopause-related nasties which – and I want to make this abundantly clear – I am nowhere near old enough to experience.

Just because she is going through the most alarming and protracted change of life I have experienced – since Great Aunt Pandora ran naked through Whipsnade Zoo, quoting Goethe loudly in Swahili and crunching a packet of Sherbet Pips – does not mean she can tar me with the same ghastly brush. Really! Now my train of thought has gone down a track not yet completed.

Ah, yes! Blushing!

It all stems from the undeniable fact that I am much in demand socially, as well as from those who flock to my Life’s Mission – and am oft confused as a result. Helga’s minuscule writing on the calendar certainly doesn’t help matters, nor does her irritating habit of changing the names of my amours willy-nilly.

As a result of this inexcusable inefficiency, I double-booked (or rather, Helga did) – and, having invited the Vicar and his wife for afternoon tea (she is my godmother, and I felt I ought to get the annual homily out of the way), I promptly forgot and pencilled in Kevin, a rustic Irish youth who is becoming a bit of a Mellors to my Lady Chatterley, though I draw the line at having honeysuckle plaited through my basement thatching.

Obviously – with social distancing and all that grim business – I was to receive Godmother Honoria and her buck-toothed husband, Percival, in the garden – and, accordingly, got Helga to set out the chairs, table, best china, napkins and other essentials in plenty of time for what I thought was a 4pm engagement, while I sloped off for what Percival would, no doubt, see as a spot of sinning.

Kevin, who is as keen on ploughing a furrow outside as I am, has latterly taken a shine to a large cane garden chair, which belonged in the Nursery when I was young and has suffered somewhat in the intervening years – the ancient cushion being as bristly as a porcupine, and some of the struts but one woodworm attack away from sawdust…’

And there we leave Booby (though the full ghastly story can be found in the book mentioned above).

NB: a friend of mine suggested a wonderful title for this blog – ‘Torrid Tales from Booby’s Boudoir’ – but changing the title was beyond my technical ability, and the blog will be about more than just Booby, entertaining though she undoubtedly is.