LITMIR.BIZ

       For Polly.

       May women everywhere have a friend as supportive, strong and bloody hilarious as you. xxx

       Chapter 1

      The first question is stupid and illogical. It is also highly personal. I pause for a moment, unsure about whether I should really be doing this. But there’s nobody else here, and I am on a break. It’s not as if what I’m doing is illegal or anything.

      Returning to the question, I chew the end of my pencil and mull over the multiple-choice answers.

      A) Eight or more times a week. Well, that’s obviously ridiculous. It’s clearly been added as the amusing option. That’s more than once a day. Who on earth has the time for that? Or the inclination, when it comes to it?

      B) Up to five times a week. Possibly, when I was in my early twenties and didn’t have anything better to be doing; like the laundry or preparing the next day’s packed lunches or catching up on Netflix or sleeping.

      C) Two or three times a week. Now we’re moving away from the fantastical and heading into the realms of reality. But honestly, whoever wrote this question needs a good talking to. There is a world of difference between twice a week and three times a week – ask anyone. Twice a week is enough to feel smugly adequate. Three times a week is pushing it a bit, but perfectly possible if there’s been a birthday or it’s Christmas or a bank holiday.

      D) Less than once a week. Again, this is impossible to answer without being more specific. Which week am I meant to be basing my answer on? If it’s the weeks after I gave birth then the answer is a resounding D. If it’s the week that Nick surprised me with a romantic trip to Devon then I can circle B with confidence. Or am I supposed to be taking a mean average over the course of one year?

      I scan my eyes across the page, searching for advice. But other than the questions and the screamingly large quiz title, there’s nothing.

      The end-of-break bell rings and hundreds of feet start pounding down the corridor. I’m not teaching for the next hour, but I keep my eyes fixed on the classroom door, just in case a hapless Year Seven takes a wrong turn. I don’t need anyone to catch me in the act of reading the magazine that I confiscated from Elise in Year Nine during the last lesson. And I am probably old enough to identify my own areas of sexual competence without taking a quiz entitled ‘Are You A Sex Goddess?’. But I’ve started now and I’m feeling curious about what the verdict will be.

      Dissatisfied with the choices, and wishing that there was a ‘once or twice a week’ category, I recklessly break with tradition and circle both C and D. Then I move onto the next question.

       Which of these positions is your favourite?

      Good god. The list of answers reads like a cocktail menu. I haven’t heard of any of them, never mind having an actual preferred position. Flicking back to the front cover, I look again at the title of the magazine. Surely Elise has got her hands on some kind of black-market, top-shelf publication and I should be handing this straight to the Headteacher? This kind of question is completely

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