According to a study by The Times sex columnist Suzy Godson of parents aged 32-55, 44% had sex weekly, 32 had sex monthly, 11% had sex annually, 9% never have sex and 4% had sex every day.
Firstly, Suzy’s job – what a divine occupation. Secondly, 4% who are you? Is it a lacklustre fumble under The White Company Egyptian cotton sheets or a full-on 28-minute grot-fest with Agent Provocateur accoutrements? Thirdly, I’ve started fancying Peter Andre.
While the latter is totally off point (the orange hue? The bleached teeth? The high-octane nasal voice? Who am I? His mysterious girl), sex stats distress me. I’m sure Suzy is fab and has a wealth of PVC bounty hidden in her love den and enough worthy anecdotes to fuel a turbo hen do.
There’s no doubt she’s 99% a bona fide bonk oracle, but it immediately makes me think I should be draped in black lace, peeling grapes on a velveteen chaise longue, awaiting my life lobster’s return.
What those percentages don’t account for is the variance of shag. Those marital vows state ‘through good times and bad’, but what they don’t include is the ugly. Ugly-I’m-wearing-puppy-emblazoned-pjs-and-am-so-tired-I-could-conk-out-on-your-bonk-on sex counts. Sure, it’s the romantical underdog, but much like the bargain bin in Tesco three minutes before close, bread is bread. And a girl’s gotta eat – whether it’s £1.34 Hovis or a thrifty 32p discount loaf.
My life is currently Sellotaped together with toddler leftovers (tramp canapés as a dear friend refers to them), wet wipes (I’ve blitzed an entire bathroom with a singular wipe), a strong lip (Mac’s Lady Danger works wonderfully with a bloodshot eye) and ugly sex.
So chuck me those mashed up fairy cakes and pop those dry Chelsea buns in the basket; allow me to rummage through those perished floury baps in search of a rock-hard bloomer. Because sometimes when you delve into that bin, you leave wondering why you don’t shop there every week.
Or every day – if you want to join that elusive 4%.
