Friday, 13 September 2013

Fantasies From The Kitchen Sink #4

Yummy-Mummy Musings Over The Marigolds…
Yummy-Mummy Musings Over The Marigolds…
More from Fifi La Mott and Captain Jean-Luc
Dorking Community Centre was a hive of activity. Ted Pemberton, Jim Blackcock, and Frederick Mansell all peered through the half open kitchen door as Fifi La Mott took to the floor. She was about to discuss her best selling novel: “ The Life and Crimes Of A Newcastle Stripper.”
Ted Pemberton, Dorking’s notorious book reviewer, took a large gulp from his hip flask, which contained his favourite tipple of Chivas Regal 25. “Nice arse,” he said a bit too loudly, as several vexed ladies’ heads snapped round to shush him.
Giggling like schoolboys, the three old men quickly closed the kitchen door.
They had volunteered their services to The Women’s Institute, as part of a sly, conniving plan of gaining access to Fifi La Mott, the sexy authoress. They had each volunteered to help carry the buffet and set out tables and chairs.
A large gathering was expected.
Hilda and Katy gave the men strict instructions that they must to be on their best behaviour and stay in the kitchen, whilst Fifi read an excerpt from her book and answered questions.
A loud knock on the kitchen window made the spying men jump with fright.
It was General Frankie.
The American ex-marine, had retired to Dorking, with his brassy wife Mimi, six months earlier. Already he had found his new platoon in Jim, Ted and Frederick. The men were on a mission.
“Bugger me Frankie! You could have killed Fredrick. He’s got a dicky heart,” hissed Ted, as he let Frankie into the kitchen through the back door.
“Okay men no, need for any alarm,” said Frankie raising his hands to surrender. “What’s the plan of action?”
“Bring Fifi to her knees,” replied Jim Blackcock, rubbing his crotch.
Jim Blackcock was always rubbing his crotch. It was common knowledge in Dorking that he was a dirty old man. No lady’s bottom was safe from Jim’s grubby little hands.
“What are these?” said Frederick, lifting the cellophane from a large tray of what appeared to be chocolate cakes. Immediately becoming pre-occupied by the delicious aroma.
“Chocolate Brownies ya stupid prick,” cackled Ted, turning to offer General Frankie a hit of his gentleman’s finest scotch from his flask.
“They smell lovely. I think Fifi La Mott made them,” said Frederick, mesmerised by dark, rich fondant swirls with sprinkles of what Frederick thought was chocolate. “Ya don’t think anybody would miss a few do ya?” He stuffed the biggest one into his mouth before handing the tray round to the other pensioners, who all greedily snatched at the cakes.
The chocolate brownies were the ones Fifi had baked earlier and deliberately handed to Frederick with a knowing sexy smile. She knew he wouldn’t able to help himself.
Fifi had used a recipe given to her by her friend Elspeth Taylor-Beverly Hills, the drag artist whom Fifi sometimes worked with back in Newcastle. Elspeth had a liking for cannabis sprinkles; she sprinkled everything she baked with the drug, which she personally imported from Amsterdam in her knickers.
Fifi finished reading the excerpt from her book and opened the floor to questions.
Hilda Blackcock was the first to stand and wave her hand .
Fifi smiled at Hilda’s floral dress and fuchsia pink lipstick. She reminded her of Mrs Slocomb from the television programme “Are You Being Served”
“Yes Hilda?”
“Fifi dear, have you really had sex with all those men, and did you really have a threesome with two Ethiopian Catholic priests when you went on holiday to Rome?”
Fifi smiled coyly. “What do you think Hilda?”
“I hope so deary, I really do!” answered Hilda excitedly
“Well, there’s your answer,” winked Fifi. “Next question please?”
“Fifi” said Mrs Patel jumping up from her seat. “As you know we ladies here at the Women’s Institute participated in a nude calendar last year. Well, what I wanted to ask was would you consider teaching us how to pole dance?”
The room erupted with the sound of applause. The questions flowed thick and fast. The evening was a great success.
Fifi agreed at the end of the session to set up a pole dancing class at the community centre.
Her publisher, who had driven in from London stood quietly observing at the back of the room. Fifi had sold 100 books in an hour. He always knew he would be onto a winner with Fifi. He climbed back into his Aston Martin and sped off to meet a pretty little English rose in a hotel room in Chelsea.
Fifi couldn’t wait to get home to tell Jean-Luc all about the evening’s events.
First she had to check her mission had been a success.
As it was such a warm pleasant evening she decided walk home via the town. In the distance Fifi could just make out a large sign for New Tesco Extra.
To her amusement, there up against the shop window in a star shaped position with his arms and legs sprawled apart and his chest pressed against the glass was Ted Pemberton. His tongue appeared to licking an advertisement for a large bowl of tortellini.
Ted Pemberton, Dorking’s eccentric controversial book reviewer, was stoned and intoxicated. This was nothing new. But licking advertisements in shop windows certainly was!
“Good evening Ted…are you all right?” asked Fifi, trying not to laugh.
Ted slowly removed his tongue from the window. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as he attempted to focus on her.
“I can’t move! I’m stuck! I’ve been like this for an hour or more! Help me!”
“I’d be a bit more careful if I were you Ted,” warned Fifi. “I’m sure I have just seen someone from the Dorking Review pulling into the car park. You wouldn’t want this picture on the front page of tomorrow’s paper now would you?”
She turned on her heel and walked away… just as the curious reporter spotted Ted and made a beeline for him.
Ted wasn’t the only one Fifi saw on her leisurely walk home. As she approached the lane where her pretty little cottage sat, there hiding in the bushes with his mail order binoculars round his neck, was Frederick Mansell.
“I’ll knock and tell Katy where you are shall I Fredrick?” Fifi called out as she strolled by. Fredrick scurried back into the hedgerow like a sewer rat.
General Frankie who lived in the largest house in the lane was in his garden, ranting to some brightly painted garden gnomes.
“Hey girly! Wanna come see what real men are made of?” called Frankie just before collapsing unconscious into a bed of dahlias.
Smiling to herself Fifi walked towards her house. She could see her neighbours Hilda and Jim Blackcock. They were dancing the tango naked in their front room. The curtains wide open for anyonel to see. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
Fifi closed the front door behind her and kicked off her shoes. She removed her poodles, Spock and Kirk, from their leads, then slowly climbed the stairs to her bedroom where Captain Jean-Luc was patiently waiting for her.
“The log Fifi,” he commanded, as she entered the room.
Fifi sat at her writing bureau and opened her laptop.
“Mission Hash Cakes accomplished Jean-Luc,” she said, whilst typing feverishly. “Ted Pemberton will make tomorrow’s news. Front-page headline: ‘Dorking Book Reviewer Caught Licking Tesco’s Window’.”
“Next mission Fifi – pole dancing fundraiser at the Women’s Institute,” dictated Jean-Luc.
Just then Fifi’s phone started ringing. It was Maureen, Fifi’s friend who lived in Australia. Maureen was internationally renowned as ‘The Orgasmic Chef.’
Fifi’s eyes twinkled. Long gone were the days of making jam and singing ‘Jerusalem’ at Dorking’s Women’s Institute. Fifi had arrived.
“Hi Maureen. What’s new? Really? Tell me more!”

Join me again soon for more of Fifi’s adventures here at Café Spike.
Visit Maureen at: – for food that’s better than sex. (Allegedly.)
Story – Fiona McAndrew. Follow me on Twitter @twtfiona

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