Today I went into Harvey Nichols and stole a pair of Ralph Lauren jeans. I don’t know why I did it, maybe because by some oversight they hadn’t been electronically tagged, maybe to see if I could? I did it in a wave of cold sweat, the jeans weren’t even my size, and when I got home, I stuffed them in the bin in a wave of guilt and nausea. Yet beneath it all was a thrill, a tiny metallic thrill, like having a cold key dropped down your back. I had done it. I had done it!

I tried to forget about it as I taught my body sculpting class at the YMCA (I love being a fitness instructor, a strictly part time gig, it allows me engage my body while leaving my mind free to fantasize). But all the time I felt this sense of satisfaction, growing and growing. Why? It was wrong, wasn’t it? Well, of course it was. And yet, the act set me apart, apart from my flabby harassed mummy students and their petty thoughts about would they be in time to pick up their kids, wondering what to cook for dinner, could they get away with warming up the lasagna one last time? While I, at home, had a pair of Ralph Laurens burning like a coal inside my bin.

When I got home, I started this blog. I suppose I need to confess.

It won’t happen again.