I’ve been searching the internet for uplifting news stories to cheer up the manager of the safari camp. He’s been feeling despondent after a Chinese fortune-teller told him he would lose his sense of smell. It’s not the worst thing for a human to lose, but the manager is very attached to his olfactory pleasures. Many are the times when I’ve caught him sniffing an empty shampoo bottle, or an item removed from the laundry basket. Chinese fortune-tellers are not infallible, of course, but their poker-faced predictions can puncture the nonchalance of the most hardened sceptic. That’s why I never consult them.
The best one I’ve found so far is a human-interest tale about a 24-year-old Cornish woman who has found her dream job. Miss Nat Garvey tests sex-toys for a living, ensuring they meet the maker’s specifications and don’t overheat on full power.
"Rather than being surrounded by office supplies and computers all day, I have piles of kinky toys to play with," she explained.
As far as feel-good stories go, few could be more satisfying than this one. It gladdens my primate soul to know that Miss Garvey thoroughly enjoys her work. I’m sure she finds it fulfilling as well.
Perhaps the most encouraging aspect of this story is that Miss Garvey is not ashamed of her occupation and makes no attempt to hide it from her friends. That would never have happened in Freud’s day, when vibrators were a tool used by doctors to calm hysterical women. Thankfully, we now live in a more enlightened age when women don’t have to be batshit insane to enjoy the simple pleasures of life (with moderate mechanical assistance). Orgasmic independence was surely the greatest achievement of the feminist movement.
My one concern for Miss Garvey is how people react when she spills the beans. The pubs of her native Cornwall are doubtless frequented by assorted yahoos who would think a girl in her line of work must be a slut or nymphomaniac. Perhaps she needs a male guardian with the fencing skills of Zorro, who would challenge any man who slighted her honour to a duel. A boorish yokel would think twice about making an inappropriate remark in her presence if he knew it might result in the letter ‘W’ being carved on the seat of his pants by a few lightning swishes of a sabre.
Call me an old-fashioned ape, but in my view women will always need protection from ruffians and liberty-takers. Look at the Swedish sports coach who told the boys under his charge to spank her arse, “her” being an imaginary girl used as a metaphor for the opposing team’s defence. He is obviously a vulgar oaf who has never been educated in the social graces and needs to be kept in check with a riding crop. A gentleman knows that a woman’s arse is not to be spanked unless she begs him to spank it. And only then if she has committed deeds of appropriate naughtiness.
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