Better than a Chocolate dildo

There has been a hiatus between entries sotospeak. But I come bearing good news (doesn't every woman?)....Lover and I have found a new dyke pad. (As I think that might mean sanitary towel in some parts of the globe, I shall clarify, lest readers have an otherwise than intended reading experience and take my references to be applying to a shared mooncup/ hemp invention or not-tested-on-animals ethical period accessory- do they do that?)

We have found our very own lesbian apartment in the capital (Oslo... I type this for readers who are unaware yours truly resides in Norway, instead of explaining what the capital of Norway is, although for individuals who have just been enlightened as to the Oslo-Norway link, you're welcome.)

I digress, our new dyke-domicile is literally around the corner from a dildo emporium. Simply perfect as Mary Poppins would say. Not a shop, note but a dildo emporium with a great big glass window showing all their wares. A technicolor shameless, declaratory, let-it-all-hang-out or poke out sotospeak window display (the commerce that is, not the new flat). Along those streamlined lines, our life-to-be has a certain Better-than-Chocolate flavour, although despite an abundance of ice here I am not hatching any yours truly becomes nude ice-statue plans.

To celebrate signing of papers, lover and I went out to a fabulous and soon-to-be-local dyke bar to drink obscene (at least X-rated) quantities of alcohol and became a pair of dyke bar-flies. I always wondered at that expression but now think it has something to do with the swatted appearance reached eventually. Said bar is ran by a slightly intimidating woman from Seattle, rather she said "Seeaddle" to be precise. To which I employed deductive logic a la Conan Doyle and made an inspired guess at Seattle. Our favourite gay bar (indeed, the only decent one in Oslo to split hairs) is a ten minute walk from our new pad (as defined above), that's just six hundred seconds, as I pointed out pedantically to my lover. But then I have a habit of over qualifying numerical issues, in the style of, "that's half, so fifty percent, 0.5 as a decimal then." Although I am handy to have around in sales when reductions need to be calculated: I whizz around calculating deductions like Carol Vorderman from Countdown on catnip. (I am blessed with a lover who finds mathematical prowess sexy and accordingly I employ it at the drop of a hat, lest it lead to the drop of a pair of Levis.)

Apropos new flat, aside from having an enviable cornershop for emergency supplies, it has affordable rent and local second-hand bookstores (we popped into one of those yesterday "to browse" and emerged with a bakers dozen of books, ie. thirteen tomes, forevermore I shall dub this a bookworm's dozen I feel; it was 13 as we both decided that twelve was too few and fourteen too many).

The future's bright, the future's pink. The cherry on the top of the chocolate-covered nipple is that we have a balcony too. More specifically, a balcony from which- under the terms of our contract- we are "not allowed to hang/display our undergarments on a Sunday or holy day". I shall of course not do this, not wishing to start a riot tout a seule courtesy of a pair of Calvin Kleins. And nor would I be so crass as to air my laundry for all and sundry, like flags of indecency. No, I shall respect the contract and instead use our new balcony to display the many dildos we intend to buy from our corner shop.