As seen in the Times
I’m fiddling with my phone when a news notification pops up. Another independent school has closed, the latest atrocity in Labour’s unrelenting Khmer Rouge-style anti-middle-class genocide. Seething, I knew it was high time for me to spend a few weeks away from Britain, Andy Burnham and mad, bad Ed Miliband.
But where to go? Husband Simon’s place in the south of France? No, much too hot. Sardinia? No, can’t risk running into Georgie, not after what happened in Sexy Fish on New Year’s Eve in 2012. Then I remember. Emilia Cash-Barings has been raving about this saucy sex cruise she’s just been on. A week of pure hedonism that made Tiberius’s palace on Capri look like the Women’s Institute AGM.
A week of hedonism that made Tiberius’s palace look like the AGM of the Women’s Institute
And so, about a week later, I find myself aboard a ship bound for Genoa with 650 other sex-crazed passengers. Wandering down from my room, my racy Boden set drawing eyes, I come to a series of doors, each promising different attractions. ‘Leather dungeon’, reads the legend above one. ‘Sultan’s Harem’, promises another. Then there is ‘Bum-slap salon’, ‘Nero’s pleasure garden’, ‘Toyboy spanking chamber’. I decide to start with something vanilla: Nero’s pleasure garden it is.
