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directions from the tube station, I should be fine.
    Went downstairs and stood outside. The cold wind tickled the damp hair at my neck. Looked down my road. No one was out walking. Very few cars came by. A bus paused at the bus stop. No one was waiting; it drove on. A
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    small car came up behind it, a man looking out the window. That must be the cab, I thought. Focus. I'm working as of now. Smile, wave, give him the address. From here on I am not me.
    We found the house. Paid the driver. Up the walk, brass knocker on the door. A light on inside. My hair was falling in my face. I took the clip out and shook the hair loose. Smiled. Rapped at the door. No turning back.
    The next morning I woke up in my own bed. Held my hand up, stared at it for ages. Was something supposed to be different?
    Should I have felt victimised, abused? I couldn't say. The finer points of feminist theory didn't seem to apply. Things felt as they always had. Same hand, same girl. I got up and made breakfast.
    dimanche, le 30 novembre

    The Boy has been casting around for a new position for some time (working position that is, not sexual, though all offers gratefully received). He's been unhappy at work for so long, but it's secure, but this, but that, well, and so on, and so forth. His workmates are the same crowd he ran with at university. But now one of them has been made redundant and he's starting to feel the full focus of the upper echelons of administration looking carefully at what he does. I keep suggesting military service, and not just because I think he would fill out a uniform in a most attractive manner. So he emailed his CV to see if there was anything I could do.
    I returned it within the half‐hour. Almost immediately the phone rang. It was the Boy, and he was laughing.
    'This is great stuff, kitty . . . but I don't think I can use it.'
    'No?'
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    'For one thing, I don't think the Army cares either way about the size of my member.'
    'You don't know that for sure. You could get anyone interviewing you.' I hear the services are really very modern these days.
    'Nice thought.' I heard him scrolling down the email from the other end of the phone. 'Recovery time between ejaculations should not be in the Other Qualifications section.'
    'It's important to me, sweetie.'
    'Doubtless. And "Oral sex: giving and receiving" under Interests and Activities?'
    'Are you saying they're not?' We laughed.
    It occurred to me to recommend my own line of work, not that he'd ever bite. The Boy is as straitlaced as a whalebone corset. I, by contrast, am widely considered among our acquaintances to be amoral. Even by the ones who don't know what I do for a living.
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    Decembre
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    D - G
    D is for Disasters
    For me, there's no such thing as an insurmountable disaster. If it all goes horribly wrong, console yourself with the knowledge you'll probably never see the customer again. Even if it goes right you will probably never see the customer again.
    That said, always be certain your phone is fully charged and within arm's reach if needed. And keep a travel pack of baby wipes to hand for cleaning up all messes of biological origin.
    E is for Eating
    Whoring is like exercise: you can't eat too soon before the appointment, or you risk blowing chunks at an inopportune moment. The usual timing of non‐dinner dates means that normal meals are almost always out of the question. Have a generous lunch. Take a snack to nibble on the way home.
    Carry a spoon just in case.
    E is also for Exercise
    Someone once told me that girl‐on‐top positions can burn as many calories per hour as one of those gym stepper machines. Note that the gent is apt to give out before you have achieved a fat‐burning workout, though.
    F is for Forgetfulness
    Always re‐confirm appointment details with the agency. Knocking on the door of room 1,203 instead of 1,302 can have unexpected consequences. I keep a small pad of paper handy rather than rely on my memory.
    That said, don't write the