Yes, but I can dream, can't I?
Picture the scene. Mid-afternoon on a Tuesday. A flat on the 17th floor of Mandela Towers. The TV gives off a romantic, flickering light as Jeremy Kyle does his thing. The air is thick with the smell of the cat's littter tray and the cries of little Chardonnay in her cot. The object of your desire gestures coquettishly at her groin. "Ah'm on't blob so yer'll 'ave to do me in't arse."