I don’t know about you, but every now and then, I hanker after a bit of eastern exotica, for dinner, and it has to be dinner so I get to dim or snuff the lights and play with candles, the warm glowing points of which bounce friskily off my painfully pretty, gilded tea glasses.   Madly appealing as the thought of sashaying in swishy silk pants, like Scheherazade might have, around wisps of sweetly scented smoke, might be, there is nothing remotely alluring about the thought of sweating for...


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