The walk takes us down to the edge of the village, past places that one normally just whizzes past in the car. Short Tony carries his brand new professional snooker cue; I do not have a new cue but have four bottles of cider to compensate for this. Big A is equipped with red wine.

We are the first there, so we rack em up (nb that is what we snooker people say when we start playing) for a practice game.

The old barn is beautifully fitted out for snooker – I do not know what it was used for previously. Aside from the large table in the middle there are lots of massive couches, a dressing screen (presumably so you can get changed into your dinner jacket for important games) and various horsey stuff like whips and leather bridles hanging up on the wall. There is a small gallery above so people can watch. It is really professional and impressive.

We have been playing for about half an hour, and several balls are remaining.

“What’s the score?” I ask Short Tony.

“4-1 to me,” he replies.

I do not yet need snookers. I almost pot another red to make the score 4-2, but it misses by about eighteen inches. It is depressing. The thing about playing on a proper big table is that due to trigonometry the amount by which you miss on a proper pub table with 50p’s is magnified by a factor of exponential 10. It had simply not occurred to me that I would be rubbish.

Short Tony goes for a pot and misses by a foot. But he is only that much better than me because of his new cue, the cheat.

Later, I play Big A and beat him. He is rubbish as well.

We are all rubbish, and we have agreed to enter the league this year. We will be laughed at. Not only will we be laughed at but we will probably become an item on the local news ‘and finally’. It is not a cheerful thought.

Martin the IT Consultant arrives unexpectedly to make a foursome.

He is also rubbish. We are doomed.

I pull the LTLP towards me!!!

We lie for 3 seconds, looking into each other’s eyes. I run my hand over the soft mound of her woman’s breast; her flesh quivers like a jelly that is withdrawing from heroin use.

“Now, up,” I hiss in her ear, with all my male power.

She raises herself obediently on the bed, her knees pressing against the sheets, her bumhole right up in the air. I move behind her and give her a soft stroke using my manhood.

“Now bark,” I command her. “Like a dogg.”

I wake with a start, sweat pouring off me. The LTLP is still snoring and snorting on the other side of the bed. The clock reads 4a.m. and I have no reason to believe that this is not the time.

An email that I have received is preying on my mind. It is from a TV person, and wants to know if I would like to go on TV in my capacity as an “author of a confessional blog” to give my “insight into how you think blogs have revolutionised the way women and men are expressing themselves sexually in the 00’s.”

It is exciting, but also a bit daunting. Notwithstanding the fact that I actually write a private secret diary and not a blog (blogs are full of people wittering on about trivial matters), I am worried that I am not fully researched in this area. Normally it is cheating to ask questions of your readership just to get comments, but it is important that I have the full picture. So: do you (and/or) your partner use this journal as erotica? Do you read it e.g. on a laptop in bed? Are there any of the characters within it that you have used within your fantasies and/or dressed up as?

I am happy if you want to leave anonymous comments if there is really personal stuff (note that I will have your IP address though, plus I would rather the really personal stuff was only left by females.)

Thank you in advance for your help.