Monday, September 10, 2007


Dear Mrs Norty,

I go out drinking with my girl pals every night after work. We tend to get really hammered down the pub and afterwards pick up blokes in town before heading off for a quick knee trembler in the nearest alleyway. Most times I get a bit of a seeing too from some bloke and a free kebab, which normally lasts longer than he does. I don’t like to speak with my mouthful, as it is unladylike, so when they finish before I’m through with my donner I usually don’t get their names. Do you have any tips on how to get chilli sauce stains out of your crop top?

Hot stuff,


Mrs Norty says

Is that what modern womanhood has come too? Quick sex with a different stranger every night in some filthy back alley? Sounds fantastic. Back in my day we had commitment and marriage, and quick sex with the same man every night in the same bloody position in the same boring old bedroom. So all that campaigning in the Seventies was not wasted after all. Try Vanish.

I HAVE embarked on an illicit affair with my boss Simon at work. He is married and though he says he loves me I think he is just kidding on. He won’t meet me outside the office, our few snatched moments together take place in the stationary cupboard where it’s a quick knee trembler then back to our desks. My friends say he is just using me for sex. I wrote to Trinny and Susanna and they agreed and told me dump him, but only after first slamming his bollocks in the cupboard door at our next little tryst. Have you got any better advice? The shaggin' is just out of this world!


Mrs Norty says,

Thanks for finally getting round to writing to me, although judging by the shocking state of your handwriting this one was knocked off extremely quickly in the stationary cupboard, much like yourself. Slam the door on his nadgers? What kind of advice is that from professional agony aunts? That whole bollock door slam routine went out with the ark. Go round to his house, cut the crotch out of all his trousers and paint “Simon shags secretaries” on the wall in the living room. Torch his car in the drive and post a picture of his pathetic privates on the internet. Is that what you wanted to hear? No? Well, try writing to me first in future. In the meantime try Dear Deirdre. She’s just happy to get any letters at all.

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