A Independent Escort in Leicester: Museums, regents & pervy parrots

I once read in a pleasing book called The Age of Absurdity that, among other tips on learning how to cultivate contentment… you must see places you already know as fodder for tourism. Or if you don’t already know them, places that are near to you, overlooked by the tourism advertisement junket, pilloried and ignored. It remains odd to me that I have been to the US, Australia, Mexico, China, but I’ve yet to go to Scotland, even though in relative terms, it is very much up the road. Its even odder to me that people go to such far flung places only to eat out in Maccie Ds.

Although, unedifying confession alert. Earlier this year I ended up eating a veggie patty at one of the strobe lighting space restaurants in a chic district of Paris (in the snow, the bloody romantic snow) after a friend and I had drank what we thought were reasonable amounts of French beer only to discover the French’s idea of a reasonable ABV saunters around the level of red wine. Not to be drunk in a pint glass.

You can’t go to a Parisian restaurant for brunch as a hungover Brit. The service is just too engaged, I don’t speak French and I hate living up to any kind of cliche.

What was I talking about? At home tourism.

Until recently I had never really spent any time in the Midlands. I went to the Bullring. Once. I was about 15 and I thought it was overwhelming and looked like an augmented marshmallow-come-Umberto Boccioni knock off. And I don’t much like shopping anyway. I got the lady genes when it comes to floral patterns, lace underwear, fancy little chocolates and french perfume…but liking of shopping, children and marriage remains amiss in my psychological vocabulary.

But I’ve been enjoying being a tourist in Leicester, as odd as that sounds. The New Walk Museum is as good as any small city art spot I’ve ever been to…although why in the whiff they put the Star Wars exhibit bang next to the German Expressionism exhibit I’ll never know. Seriously, when I’m trying to watch some avant garde-y docu projection off the floor about the Nazi’s treatment of the artistic and social decadence of the Weimar republic, I don’t need to be hearing, “dadada dur da dadada durh da, durh da” jauntily in my side ear.

I’ve spent a lot of time wandering around St Martins Square which is more my fashions than shopping mawwwwllsss, as the yanks call them, although I don’t know who in local planning thought it a good idea to grant an O’neills in Leicester’s foremost bohemian district de la chintz. If that is even how these things work, what do I know about town planning?


I’ve also learnt a little bit about Richard the third, which is nice, because its (embarrassingly) the only Shakespeare production I’ve ever been to (I don’t count a vodka smeared mate at Uni doing his best Macbeth impression on a park bench, but perhaps I should.) I just recall it was the hotel dude who gets kissed a lot in Notting Hill, playing the Quasimodo-esque regent and there were lots of people in salmon socks, laughing rambunctiously at jokes I, personally, found dated. I’d like to see Othello next, but if and only if, the upper classes promise to behave themselves.

I also went to Birdland with a friend, but a chatty red Macaw ripped off two of my shirt buttons. Subsequently I had more cleavage on show that day than is entirely appropriate for a family outing. I’ve decided that the red macaw in question was a bloke and the whole ‘oh don’t us birds just love buttons?!’ thing is a clever ruse.

Still, more to see. Not least more lovely gentle fellows,


Miss Lenna - Leicester based dominatrix, mistress & kinkstress xxx