Fifty Shades of North Norfolk: Chapter 1

I have been known to comment that the only thing even remotely 'Fifty Shades of Grey' in my life is my 15 year old M&S underwear. You know the sort I mean. The knickers which have been up the hoover a few times and the bras which have been washed to within an inch of their cotton-polyester lives.
I have never read so much as a word of the 'Fifty Shades' series and have no wish to. However, I have seen enough spoofs and heard enough snippets from friends to have a reasonable grasp of the content of the books. So, I thought I'd have a shot at my very own, much tamed down North Norfolk version.

Tina could hardly contain her excitement. Later she was going out on her first date with Dean. They had gone to school together back in the 80s when Dean cut quite a dashing figure at the end-of-term disco in his flecked trousers, slip on shoes and piano keyboard tie. They met again years later at the supermarket in North Walsham where they both worked. Dean was on the hot food counter and Tina worked at the kiosk selling cigarettes and scratch cards.
Dean wasn't like the other men she had known. He had a bit of class about him, like the fact that he bought his track-suits from Roys rather than QD. That's what had first attracted her to him. He was a bit different. One day she had overheard him chatting during a fag break and had been impressed when he said he'd once been to London. Tina had never really been out of Norfolk. She didn't see the point when she had everything she needed on the doorstep. Fields, tractors, farm animals, Christopher's Bakery. She later found out that he'd actually said he'd once been to *'Loddon', but by then it didn't matter. She was already head over heels.
Tina put down her copy of 'Take a Break'. Dean was coming to pick her up in a few minutes. When they'd arranged the date he'd said he wanted to take her up Cromer Pier (or Crooma Pair as it's pronounced round these parts) and she had giggled, thinking that this was a euphemism for something altogether less innocent, but he had remained serious and she realised that what he had meant was that he wanted to take her up Cromer Pier...to do a spot of crabbing, he said.
She heard the sound of a car pulling up outside and drew back the net curtains to take a look. He was on time; that was a good sign. She slipped the key into the lock and opened the door....


*Loddon is a small town in S. Norfolk

My Inner Baptist

I had a traditional Baptist upbringing, and despite the fact that I have now largely rejected the whole charismatic church package, it remains a significant, if unwelcome influence on my life even today. For example, if I am required to provide food for a social gathering I experience a strange compulsion to take quiche. I am also totally unable to even contemplate reading 'Fifty Shades of Grey' due to strict ideas about, well you know, sex. The Baptist guide to teenage boy/girl relationships could be summed up in one phrase. 'If you haven't got one, don't touch it'. I guess if you had the nerve to be a gay Baptist then the advice would be 'If you have got one, don't touch it anyway'.
My young son recently asked what a virgin was. I floundered about for a bit before deciding on "It's someone who hasn't had a boyfriend or girlfriend", and instantly imagining all sorts of unspeakably embarrassing and potentially incriminating scenarios where I had to explain to the head teacher/vicar/magistrate that what he actually meant when he said he wasn't a virgin was...You get the idea. When my sister-in-law (also indoctrinated from an early age and also a fellow escapee) heard about this question she said "What were you thinking of? You should just have told him it was someone who isn't married!"
A few months go I was in Barcelona with a colleague looking at the most beautiful designer coat. It was in the sale and there was only one left. I was umming and aahing about whether to get it, arguing that I didn't need it. "What do you mean NEED?", she asked incredulously. "Do you LIKE it? Will it make you feel good wearing it?"
"Yes", I replied, adding feebly "I can't help it. I'm a Baptist". It must have been an amusing scene to behold as my friend stood in the middle of Desigual, urging me in a loud voice, "Fight your Inner Baptist. Come on. Fight it and win". I did. I bought the coat and I love it. Now, whenever that little voice pipes up in my head telling me that I am 17 years old again and that I must eat quiche and not have sex I put my hands over my ears like a child and sing 'La, la, la not listening!'