I confess I rarely have many dealings with erotic novelists. This isn’t snobbery on my part, it’s just they tend to be so much more generously remunerated than a mere poet. Still I do have a friend who is renown within the genre. I was going through a poorly remunerated period when he bumped into me.

“I say old fellow, do me a favour will you? I’ve got a book launch and really need somebody reliable behind the bar.”

It may come as a shock to people who think they know me but I’m very reliable when working, rarely drinking to excess. So I’m occasionally called upon by friends who need somebody sober to watch their back.

In this case the book launch was in the rather nice house of one of my friend’s patrons. Apparently her husband was going to some function related to work and wouldn’t be back until very late so she agreed to throw open her drawing room for the launch.

Indeed things went well. There was a considerable crowd of people, all of whom purchased a book, drank a glass of wine and engaged in polite conversation. Indeed considering the genre we were promoting I was almost disappointed at how respectable and well-behaved people were.

The lady of the house did push the limits a little. She wore a rather elegant red dress which fitted her to perfection. Indeed from the discussion that I overheard between a small set of ladies as I collected glasses, it didn’t merely fit to perfection, but rather she fitted it to perfection. By the cunning use of panels and stays it gave her the perfect figure without excessive discomfort. Not only that but it was apparently entirely in one piece. The lady merely donned this one garment. There was more, which I never really caught, but apparently it jiggled and wiggled significantly in ways that the ladies deep in conversation alluded to but never felt the need to explain.

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