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threesome with John and Jean might act as a kind of unauthorised electric shock therapy is becoming ever more compelling.
    â€œHere we are,” John says, indicating with a flourish of his hand that we have arrived.
    The house is in the middle of an elegant two-storey crescent. We climb the steps to the front door and as Jean opens the door he places a hand on my arse pushing me across the threshold.
    John, who is behind, says, “Ta Da!”
    I bet that a few people have balked and run away at this point, not through fear but in sheer revulsion.
    The curtains, heavy Dralon, are peach coloured, as is the deep pile nylon wall-to-wall carpet and theenormous sofa.
    The cushions have been covered, by John’s own fair hands so he tells me, with thick canvas carrying an ethnic print. They would be tasteful were they not, also, peach.
    â€œSit there,” Jean instructs, pointing me to the sofa.
    John winks at me and says, “We’ll be back in a jiffy.”
    I force a grin and sit in the sea of peach wondering just how long it is since I last heard the phrase,
back in a jiffy
.
    The lounge has been knocked through to the dining room, which has the same colour carpet occupied by glass and wrought iron dining table and chairs.
    The bookcases contain sets of identical spines which say more about misplaced ideas of interior design than culture, whilst the surfaces are occupied by a tidily arranged series of geometrically modern candle holders, vases and paperweights; generic items from Habitat or Ikea. Part of the sea of consumer junk that those stores throw at us every year, the same stuff people always seem to give me at Christmas and which I have to wait until springtime to bin.
    When the twins return, their outfits, leather chaps, studded posing pouches, big motorcycle boots and harnesses, are so incongruous with the surroundings that it is as much as I can do not to snigger.
    They sit either side of me and serve drinks from a pseudo antique bar, which for some reason has mock leaded windows.
    â€œSo what do you think?” asks Jean proudly.
    â€œYeah, great I say,” perusing the two.
    If one can just ignore the fact that we’re sittingin a sea of peach drinking sherry from a mock antique bar, the boys look pretty sexy, but truth be told, I’m having trouble ignoring.
    â€œI’m glad you like it,” John says. “It’s always so nice when people appreciate all the hard work.” He plumps a cushion as he says this.
    I assume he has misunderstood. We are talking not about the room but about the outfits they have put on for my benefit, but the couple, at least, seem in tune.
    â€œTook ages to choose the sofa though,” Jean says.
    I think, “
No. I can’t do this
.” I will make my excuses and leave.
    But as I open my mouth to say so, Jean interrupts.
    â€œWe spotted you straight away,” he says. “The second you walked in we both thought, wow!”
    â€œYou’re new to Brighton aren’t you?” John asks.
    The flattery calms my nerves. I even blush as I thank them, and start to explain how I came here less than a month ago.
    John asks concernedly if I know anyone in Brighton.
    â€œMoving to a new place is hard,” he says. “We can introduce you to
lots
of people.”
    As I start to forget the peach surrounding me, Jean swigs the last of his sherry and nudges his partner.
    â€œTime to take the prisoner downstairs I think,” he says.
    John stands. “Indeed,” he agrees standing.
    â€œLook. Guys …” I say as they each grab an elbow. “Maybe we can do the downstairs thing another time.”
    Jean laughs at me. “Relax, there’s no pressure. Justcome and look, you have to see our setup, we’re not going to jump you or anything.”
    I am intrigued to see their set-up, and they are so un-scary except in terms of their taste in furnishings that I decide to go see. I’m pretty sure I