I’m sorry there’s no other way of saying it, but my fantasies are fucked.

Actually, that may not be the appropriate word. My fantasies are not fucked.

I am putting aside sci-fi fantasy writers here. They don’t inhabit necessarily the fantasy world I’m about to touch upon.

I’m not interested in Mr Toolbox or Mr My, What Big Hands You’ve Got… I don’t daydream about meeting Ms Adult Fun for good times and I don’t imagine someone breaking into my house out of a desire for me, which happened to be the stuff of the Milk Tray ads.

Those ads of the 70’s and 80’s -which they’ve tried to bring back- where a tall dark handsome stranger somehow made breaking and entering kind of cool.  He would steal into a damson’s room after scaling some incredible height or plunging depths, beating off sharks along the way, risking his life, totally making today’s extreme sports such as the Red Bull Cliff Diving World Series look like an unremarkable feat, and mountain climbing, aided with specialist kit and equipment seem like just over-worrying. Apparently, these Milk Tray ads reflected the fantasies of women at that time.

And all because- we were told- the lady liked….chocolate?

Really?

Or was it purely an opportunity for a display of narcisexual behaviour where the man is just so hot damn in love with himself; his looks, his agility, how buff he is (in all the ads I’ve seen, there is no direct contact with the lady), but I suppose, on top of looking like eye candy and not eye cabbage, the key fuel required to ensure one is charismatically attractive to a great many is that self-affirmation these character types embrace very easily: ‘If I weren’t me, I’d fancy the pants off me.’

Anyway, my point is that, if a tall dark handsome someone wanted to go to such extreme efforts to make me happy, thinking a few quids worth box of chocolates will suffice (and by the way, he goes through all that effort for Tada…!Just the one box? If they’re that bloody good?), well, it just won’t do it.
Nope.

And all because the lady loves… 
No. Let me tell you what he’d have to do.

He would have to

…leave off The Envelope. Inside it would be a key. The key to a beautifully stocked library and study. The note would be signed, “Yours forever”. No, not a declaration of his commitment to me but, more important, an attribution- the library is mine. He understands that my novel is the beginning of many, and links it to my long term happiness. The lady needs a library.

…deliver The Bed Machine. No, you dirty stop out. Not what you think. With this, you lay down and sleep for a duration of three minutes, however, your body is restored to the equivalent of eight hours sleep. Now, there… I can see you close your eyes in silent praise. It’s your new God.

… Lift the lid of the Silver Tray Cloche. Again and again and again. Sooo many times. Smoked salmon and scrambled eggs? Sweet potato bake teased with freshly drizzled lime with homemade mango salsa and Provencal tomatoes? Slow cooked lamb with roasted vegetables? What would you like for your breakfast, lunch, and dinner? Vegetarian? Pescatarian? Flexitarian? When you want it, how you like it, leaving you free to deal with important issues, such as fine tuning your novels, reading and more writing.

Are you getting the idea here?

Like I said, my fantasies… aren’t.