A short message for those who have read my blog and are interested: I am back in my old house, together with my daughter. What I have learnt: a monogamous relationship gradually turns you into somebody asexual. Which I never wanted to become. which I never thought it would happen to me. I didn't have a bad time with Phillip - but now we need some distance. As he is overseas, I am back home - but it's nice. I have cleaned and refilled my pool. I have met some old friends. I am looking for a nanny and a job.

To come here to the blog I need some time to myself and some inspiration. Speaking of time - I forgot to say that I am not a full-time housewife any longer. For some weeks I have been teaching in a local high school. People who have known me for a longer time know that I did the same at home in Austria before we moved here. One of their regular teachers suddenly got ill and had to have parts of her colon removed, so they needed someone - I got a phone call and here she is back: Miss Alpina, the sharpest English teacher of them all, red-lipped in her careful make-up, her intellectual dark-rimmed glasses and the business suit (mind you, I needed a new skirt that fit my ass). It's only 8 lessons a week but my god - how much I loved to turn into myself again.

When I got up and Phillip left, it was still dark, and there were some snowflakes dancing before our bedroom window, although it's not white outside. I often miss my home in Vorarlberg, Austria, which is higher up in the hills than the suburbs of Zuerich. Where you feel at home, the snow is always whiter.

Alpinita, the loveliest of daughters imaginable, was awake, and after a short breakfast I took her to her playgroup, where she will spend the morning - the first time after the New Year's break. By the way, over Christmas we flew to Phillip's parents - some kind of a first and a sign that we can afford such luxuries.

Then I came home (I still don't drive), undressed again and had my leisurely morning shower (In summer I would have been swimming in the pool). I towelled myself dry, put on the computer in my study, went to the kitchen and made some coffee (Nespresso - what else?)- when I began to feel cold, I finally put on my bathrobe, and that is how I am sitting here, reading a number of comments and PMs which are all full of positive emotions, even love for me. How it makes me feel good all over.

No, it's not that our sex life has become a little stale, as someone suspected in his PM (Thanks for your sympathy all the same and for your juicy offer). It's good and pleasant - Phillip knows all my holds and triggers ever so well. I still melt in his hands, his cum is still caviare on my tongue. And yet, it's the brightest sunshine that makes the colours fade, isn't it? Our life has become a little time-worn, or work-worn, if this an existing term: Nowadays work seems to have taken over people's lives more than ever, also our lives - Phillip works for hours and days on end - because the next edition of their paper is always on the next day, everybody around him works. My daughter makes me care for her all around the clock, or at least she did.

Work is definitely the greatest adversary of a satisfying and adventurous sex life. So what - some might ask. Yes, so what?

I am overwhelmed by your warm welcome after all that time away from the blog - it's so good to have friends wherever they are. You won't believe but I had to cry a little when I read your comments just now. Well, here I am again - and as you might guess what brought me here is not just boredom or nostalgia. It's some changes in my present life.

First I have to tell you that in the past two years I have become what I always thought could never happen to me, what I even secretly abhor: a middle class, suburban, monogamous, fat-assed mum. Yes, fat-assed - I am not a spring chicken any longer, as the saying goes. I have entered my 44th years of age. In 6 years I will be old. It's now the time when the turmoil in the blood is supposed to calm down - according to some. Monogamous - who would ever have bet on that? Certainly not me.

But this can't have been all - that's what my senses have been telling me lately. By god, I am not dead yet, no, not at all!

I came back here because I have such good memories. Doing some reading about someone I was when I started here - almost a stranger. Though I feel that this stranger is still somewhere inside me: under the surface of this middle-aged mum there is a horny me - like magma under the surface of the earth. Buried deep down. But still there. Waiting to erupt. And though I seem different now, I must say I like the person I am reading about. While reading my hairs stand on end - if this is not a sign...

We spent a few days in the Swiss alpine valley of Engadin, near St.Moritz, and it was really fantastic, especially because I found out that my skiing skills are still quite ok-ish. Alpinita is too young for the slopes yet, but she had a lot of fun as we were pulling her sled on which she sat like a princess. Winter always used to be my favourite season - if we hadn't had a little girl with us, I would certainly have felt like one.

Someone I had not heard from before but must have followed a considerable part of my blog made a suggestion which is worth pondering. He thought my best writing was not the fruit of my mind, but the result of a close cooperation between some other parts of my sweet self: it was when my pussy dictated to my hand what my hand did to my pussy. And not only my hand, but whoever was exploring these wetlands. So I should not try writing in ink, but go on dipping my pen in my most intimate juices again, the way I always used to. Oh my, oh my ...

"As I usually tell you, you are of the most talented writers the world of literature hasn't discovered yet", is what my lovely friend Gio writes - which shows that he knows my innermost wishes and ambitions ever so well. How much I would love to be exactly what you say: a writer, who is published and read, and even admired. Yes, I admit, admired.

If you could get a look into the intimate mind of my computer, you would find: a little novel of about 200 pages, hidden in a file with a very inauspicious name - I wrote it when I had some time to myself now and then. It's about one important day in the life of an outwardly ordinary middle-class woman, on which her life almost took a dramatic change - because her dormant sexuality finally finally broke out like a volcano and did almost as much damage.

I showed it to a friend and asked him to read it and give me his mind about it - I got it back with all my mistakes corrected and suggestions for the improvement of my style. And he admitted that this certainly was a plot. Obviously he was not convinced of me ever becoming a writer.

So how can anyone think I am good? I suppose because my book was just written by good old plain me, while the book you would love from me would be written by an Alpina you have created in your own imagination.

It's been such a long Saga - 103 pages, a substantial part of my life. I have started to read some entries from the beginning - they are so far away, I can hardly believe what I wrote. Was this me? Was I ever like that? And what am I now - compared to then?