In the days before digital, colour photography demanded a level of expertise (and equipment) which put it beyond my reach. I could manage the processing of colour slides but couldn’t turn them into prints. Another drawback with colour slides (at least for me) was that the picture had to be “composed” in the camera, with no chance of cropping or resizing later. I have always been useless at visualising images at the picture-taking stage. As a result I have few colour photographs of Emma from our past. Those I have all date back to when she was in her thirties. At the time it was my ambition to see Emma across a double-page spread in the Readers’ Wives section of one of those down-market girlie mags with names like Razzle and Men Only. So without Emma’s knowledge I sent some of the slides off never to be seen again. I don’t know if any were actually published, because contributions were syndicated and I couldn’t afford to buy all the boys’ mags on the top shelf. But the idea of some guy masturbating over pictures of my wife really turned me on.

Now there’s a turn-up for the books - Emma fully dressed. From now on, if anyone meets her in the flesh, they’ll have no excuse for resorting to that old chestnut: I didn’t recognise you with your clothes on. Actually, the fear of being recognised still figures very highly amongst Emma’s phobias. Up there with spiders. She insists that if anyone in town recognises her as the star of this Blog, we will have to sell up and move to another town, if not emigrate to another country. I try to convince her that, with only a handful of regular followers worldwide, the chances of her being recognised are vanishingly small. But she still tries to persuade me to pixilate our features more than I do already. Failing that, and in the remote possibility that anyone did manage to put a name to the image, I would hope they’d have the common sense or the gallantry not to let on.

I can’t believe how much time I am saving by using the new Bloglist feature, and my thanks go to Lapis Ruber (whose Fire Down Below is burning brightly) for explaining it to me. I no longer have to spend time linking to my favourite Blogs one at a time, only to find that they haven’t been updated since I last took a peek. (That’s more time to spend sexually harassing Emma - harassment in my case meaning persuading her to pose for me and the Blog. Catch her in the right mood and she needs little encouragement; catch her in the wrong mood and she suddenly has ironing to do. But I digress to justify a picture of Emma, having been persuaded.) There are still a few of my favourites which don’t seem to permit the necessary feeds for Google Reader to track them. Which prompts me to ask is there a downside to allowing feeds, or is it that the feeds can’t get past the Content Warning?

With Emma Jane and I so cruelly separated, it was inevitable that this song by the Everly Brothers should come to mean so much to me. Deaming of Emma was all I could do. This was not the clearesy version on YouTube, but it was the only one which showed the lyrics, which were important. Besides which, the dancer is so cute.

Emma and I were counting our blessings last night after watching the evening news - more and more marriages floundering on the rocks of financial hardship. Perhaps we are lucky to have started our life together in comparative poverty, at least in monetary terms. So I reckon it’s time for another Blast from the Past to remind me how lucky I was (and still am). In those days, it was almost impossible to take a bad photograph of Emma, which is why I have so many. And my God, what a fabulous fuck she was! Time has passed so quickly and seems to be accelerating at an alarming rate, but Emma is still easy on the eye. Admittedly, I have to take more care when photographing her, and I regretfully reject a few nowadays. But I have still accumulated almost a thousand images of her since staring this Blog. And my God, what a fabulous fuck she still is.

When I was checking out Shrewsbury on Google Earth, the intriguing label “Don’t even think about it!” cropped up. It revealed a picture of Grope Lane - which left me wondering how the street got its name. In this context, is the word grope a corruption of something more innocent, or should it be taken at face value? Given that the street is situated in the medieval quarter, and that prostitution was rife in all medieval towns, it could well mean what we take it to mean. I had intended to take a picture of Emma standing beneath the street-name in as provocative a pose as the traffic would allow, but we ran out of time thanks to Emma’s shopping excursions. Next time perhaps. Meantime, here is a picture of Emma demonstrating the meaning of the word. And I’m sure many will agree that, in the right circumstances, a sly grope can be every bit as exciting as full sex.

It was after dipping into my favourite little Miscellany of Sex that I Googled Real-dolls and came across this image of this latex lady. Apparently, she comes with “an articulated skeleton which allows for anatomically correct positioning.” As does Emma, so what’s new? Well this one comes with nine heads to choose from, five porn-standard body styles, and three working orifices supplied as standard! So I can create my own idealised version of womanhood - assuming I haven’t found her already (he adds diplomatically). A bizarre feature of these up-market dolls is that “the breasts can stand 400 per cent elongation without tearing. ” I’m not sure how much elongation Emma’s breasts can stand. I’m pretty sure it isn’t 400 per cent, but I’m not about to put it to the test. Unlike the doll, Emma fights back. I loved the warning that accompanied this picture. Please note: Real-dolls do NOT stand unassisted. I doubt if they are expected to do much standing.

That’s it then - Summer is officially over and Autumn is upon us. And although poets may wax lyrical about the Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, it will take more than a few lines of poetry to make up for the worst Summer in living memory. The occasional sunny days we’ve had lately served only to remind us of the weather we should have been enjoying for weeks on end. And it’s not just the weather that’s upset me (though it’s the direct cause of my other grumble). It’s been months since Emma got her tits out in the great outdoors and, unless there’s a sudden change in the climate, it could well be next year before she startles the sheep again. I have suggested that the cold air might make her nipples more pronounced, and that raindrops (or even snowflakes) on her boobs would create a novel image, but she’s not overly keen. Here’s a reminder of what I’ve missed.

[Sunday, 21st September, 1958] Starting this diary again. Have been conned into helping out at the Scouts as a leader, along with my old mates Spud, Dave G. and KC. Went to the Bear Brand Social Club last night with KC to drink (heavily) and play snooker (badly). Couldn’t bring myself to chat up a couple of girls at the bar, much to KC’s annoyance. “They strike mine eyes, but not my heart,” I insisted (with thanks to Ben Jonson). Can still feel Emma’s rib cage under thin cotton dresses. Remember how, with my arm round her waist, I could rest my hand on her hip-bone. How her breasts occasionally brushed against me as we walked. The softness of those breasts and how her nipples pressed against the palm of my hand. How the scent of her lingered on my fingers long after she had gone home. Why am I doing this to myself?

Getting away certainly did us both the world of good. Emma especially was rejuvenated. And not only by the fact that there was a well-stocked fabric shop next door to the hotel - which has made her determined to return to Shrewsbury on a regular basis. Our rejuvenation was also helped by a television programme about sex - everything you wanted to know, and probably one or two things we didn’t really need to know. (And after watching a few videos lately, I was relieved to learn that I was Mister Average rather than Mister Less-than.) The programme (and a shared bottle of rosé) put Emma in the mood for a long and passionate session. And the next morning I awoke to find Emma looking down at me. For all I know, she might even have woken me. She smiled sweetly and said, “Don’t be long in the bathroom. I want cock.” Which was nice.

Wetherspoons is best known (in the UK) for its chain of well-appointed pubs, with friendly service, and fair prices for both food and drink. There are only a few of them which offer accommodation, so we didn’t know what to expect. We were not disappointed, and I can thoroughly recommend the Shrewsbury Hotel, which overlooks the river and is close to the centre of town. The rooms are clean and comfortable, and residents enjoy a private entrance to the bar, where meals can be ordered all day until ten in the evening. Anything you order at the bar can be added to your final bill. And that’s all the free advertising they’ll get here! What might have been a downside to some, didn’t worry us at all. Our room overlooked the outdoor smoking area - it is after all a pub. Actually, Emma seemed to find it quite a turn-on being screwed to the sound of young people enjoying themselves. {Don’t expect any one-on-one shots, by the way. We were too busy!]

It is a three hour journey by train to Shrewsbury. Most passengers see to prefer to sit at tables. There’s more leg-room for one thing, and somewhere to spread a book or newspaper, or to put tea and sandwiches when the trolley comes round. The downside is you never know what grotesque couple is going to sit opposite you to bore you with tales of their holiday triumphs or disasters. Emma and I prefer the comparative privacy of the aircraft-type seats, despite the limited leg-room. There we can hold hands, whisper sweet nothings, exchange kisses in splendid (if only imagined) isolation. On this occasion, Emma introduced a new diversion - “masturbating” my thumb suggestively. Much later, when Emma was preparing for dinner in the hotel, I sent her a text: “I hope your practice on the train pays off.” It did, by the way.

Today is Glyndwr Day here in Wales. To celebrate, here is Emma wearing nothing but my Glyndwr neck-tie and a smile. Owain Glyndwr is arguably the most famous figure in Welsh history. His revolt (1400-9) was the last major Welsh rebellion against English rule. The rebellion itself was defeated, but Glyndwr himself was never captured and became a legendary hero amongst the Welsh people. His story would make an epic to rival Braveheart. One of my heroes of the rebellion is a brave old Welshman forced into service as a guide. He lead the king’s men on a wild goose-chase through the treacherous bogs of North Wales, in the foulest of weather, before finally admitting to the bedraggled king that he himself had two sons fighting for Glyndwr and had no intention of betraying them. Failing to see the joke, the king had him executed on the spot. He deserves to be more than a footnote in the history books.

[1971] It was following one of those “Save your marriage” programmes on television that we made our separate lists - not that our ten-year marriage needed saving. Far from it. But the lists were a bit of fun - your ten sexual fantasies in order of preference. Emma Jane cheated of course, insisting that I had already fulfilled all her fantasies. Flattery, was it, or lack of imagination? Either way, I thought it was bending the rules, although I too found it difficult to think of anything after the first six. Emma read my list with the occasional raised eyebrow.
It was a week later that we ate out at our favourite restaurant, making eyes at each other across the table. While we were waiting for dessert, Emma leaned forward and whispered, “Drop your fork.” “Sorry?” I responded. “I thought you said ‘Drop your fork.’” “I did,” she whispered impatiently - then reached over and deftly flicked my fork off the table onto the floor. When I bent down to pick it up, I watched as Emma deliberately spread her legs. She had no panties on, and her neatly-trimmed bush was gloriously on display!

I’m publishing this post this immediately after yesterday’s for the sake of comparison. A little experimentation with Photoshop Elements produced this picture - a sort of half-way stage to what I’m trying to create - an authentic cartoon version of Emma. It’s still a long way from satisfactory, but it’s a start. I’m sure it would be easier with the full version of Photoshop. Already it’s obvious that a major problem will be enlarging the eyes and reducing the mouth, without distortion and keeping details like the eyelashes will be a major problem. Of course it would be easy enough to clone the eyes and mouth from an actual cartoon, but I reckon that would be cheating. I will, however, try cloning them from other pictures of Emma.

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There is a programme on television this week about breast milk. Not the usual propaganda film insisting that breast is best - as if there were any dispute - but one about women who share their breast milk in one way or another. When she was feeding Eva all those years ago, Emma’s breasts became fuller and rounder, and I loved to watch her breast-feeding. One day, when the baby had had her fill, and quite out of the blue, Emma offered me a drink. Although I had spent many a delightful hour sucking at her nipples before Eva was born (and since), I declined. My excuse is that I have always disliked milk, except on breakfast cereals. And then it has to be straight from the fridge. Or perhaps as a banana milk-shake. I could never abide warm milk. In retrospect, of course, I regret it. I’m sure it would have been quite sexy. I wonder how many other men have had the offer and accepted it. Or is that a taboo subject?

Referring back to yesterday’s post, it is another of my short-term ambitions to learn how to create cartoon images based on some of our photographs. This would seem on the face of it to be easier to achieve. Surely a simple cartoon like the one on the left is easier to draw than detailed, life-like sketch? Perhaps it is when you have the skill to draw it freehand. But I can’t draw to save my life, so I would have to do it by manipulating the photographs. I have followed up a couple of “how to” links on the Photoshop help site, but I can’t honestly say I have been impressed with the results shown as examples. It would be great to produce an adult comic strip featuring yours truly and Emma - and great fun taking the photographs to convert to the cartoon format. If I ever master the technique, you’ll be the first (and probably the only ones) to know.

In her early twenties, daughter Eva would be in hospital for five or six weeks every year for six years. This was the result of negligence by her GP who missed symptoms we could plainly see. When we insisted that she be referred privately, the consultant said, “If you hadn’t brought her to see me, this young lady would have been dead within the week.” Believe me, there’s no greater fear than the fear of losing an only child, so I will change the subject. One time, a middle-aged lady in the next bed sketched Eva as she slept. It was so clearly effortless to her, but the drawing was breathtaking, and would have been a treasured possession if Eva hadn’t lost it. Ye gods, that child can be careless! Of the many talents I don’t have, the ability to draw is the one I admire and envy most in others. Occasionally (as here) I try to produce with Photoshop the sort of sketches I would love to be able to draw freehand. But I’m painfully aware that it’s cheating.

We love the ancient town of Shrewsbury, though we have never before stayed there, so it brings back no fond memories of sexual activity (yet!) Founded in about 800 AD, it was known to the Ancient Britons as Pengwern (the alder hill], and to the Anglo-Saxons as Scrobbesburh (shrub-town). This name was gradually corrupted into Schrosberie, now Shrewsbury. Its Welsh name Amwythig means ‘fortified place’. The town has a significant medieval heritage, and boasts a largely unaltered medieval street plan. At the height of its commercial importance during the late Middle Ages (14th/15th Centuries) it was the centre of a flourishing wool industry, trading with the rest of Britain and Europe. The town features over 660 historic listed buildings. Here endeth the lesson.

The song observes that some say tom-may-toe while others say tom-art-toe (though I’ve yet to meet anyone who says pot-art-toe for potato). A similar divergence of opinion arises over the name Shrewsbury, with some people pronouncing the ew to rhyme with shoe, others to rhyme with show. You pays your money and you takes your choice, as my old dad used to say. We Welsh don’t have that problem. To us, Shrewsbury is Amwythig. And that’s where Emm and I will be for a day or three this week. We deserve a little break to raise our spirits - a little retail therapy, and somewhere completely different to screw Emma (cue picture). I’ll tell you all about it when we get back, perhaps. Incidentally, our next-door neighbours, who visit Shrewsbury often, said they would phone me so that we can meet up. I have a feeling that my mobile is about to lose its charge. How unfortunate.

This is daughter Eva’s dog looking very sorry for herself after losing a battle with the clippers in the poodle parlour. Anyone who saw her close relative win Best of Show at Crufts last year would be hard put to recognise her as one of the same long-haired family. She’s a Tibetan Terrier, with a far more illustrious pedigree than mine. People unacquainted with the facts will look at this picture and say, “Ah! Bless!” etc. Just as strangers of all ages will stop in the street to pat the animal on the head and tell her how cute she is. But this is the creature that more or less put an end to my love-life for twenty days last month. Believe me, there are few things more off-putting, when you are attempting to inveigle yourself into your wife’s gaping pussy, than having a tail-wagging, attention-seeking, hyperactive mutt leap onto the bed ready to play tug-of-war with the duvet.

I needed some expert help in killing a persistent little bug on my laptop this week. Having phoned BT I made several futile attempts to hand over control to my appointed remote assistant. (Bombay is about as remote as you can get from here.) Ranjeet finally concluded that my operating system had been corrupted. All those images of fornication no doubt. So I spent a day reinstalling Windows onto my laptop, so that Ajitabh could take control and swat the pesky bug once and for all (I hope). I then spent a couple of days reinstalling various other essentials. And another day uninstalling the various add-ons that some programs assume you cannot live without. There is a limit to how many all-singing- all-dancing file-managers I want cluttering up my hard-drive .Computers, eh. Can’t live with ’em. Can’t live without ’em. Or was that something else? Here’s a clue.

I have only half a dozen photographs of Emma Jane dating from when we first met. I was lucky that even these survived in her mother’s effects. Emma would have destroyed them all. All but one of them are the compulsory school photographs, which in those days always turned out like mug-shots for the Criminal Records Office. [From the photographs I have seen of nephews and nieces, it seems that standards have improved beyond measure.] Like many a fourteen-year-old girl, Emma Jane was pathologically camera-shy. And although I loved her from day one, I have to admit from the scant evidence I have that she was not as photogenic as she would later become. It makes me realise how lucky I was that we met when we did. A year or so later and she might well have gone for someone who showed more promise.

I have finally done what I have been promising myself I would do for two years. I printed proof-sheets of each and every CD containing images of Emma. It came to more than sixty sheets, each of forty images - a total of 2500 pictures so far, all of the same subject. You would be forgiven for saying the man is obsessed. Since I wasn't very methodical the first time round, it will now be easier for me to check which negatives remain to be scanned and digitised. (I should live so long!) I can also check if there are any unused photographs worth publishing to illustrate future posts - waste no, want not. Finally, it will be helpful when looking for details to paste into the collages I enjoy making. Anyway, just to prove that it wasn’t a complete waste of time, here is a picture I don’t think I have previously posted.

I recently bought a pair of shoes chosen specifically to strengthen my weak ankles. They are described in their literature as the anti-shoe, being inherently unstable, unlike ordinary shoes. It is this slight instability which exercises the muscles and tendons of the ankle (as well as calves, thighs and lower back). It is claimed that the force the wearer to adopt the majestic gait of the Masai of the African plains - hence the name on the box: MBT or Masai Barefoot Technology. Every step, it is claimed, is a workout for the whole body. And don’t I know it. They’ve certainly put a spring in my step. Actually, it’s only when you are standing still that you are aware of the instability and feel your leg muscles working hard to maintain your balance. They’re the only shoes I’ve ever bought which come with an instructional video. And there was me thinking I knew how to walk! All that’s missing are the letters L and R on the shoes themselves. [I don’t mean this as an advertisement, so I won’t link to the website.]