OK. We’re an unlikely couple. We revel in our notoriety. My friends now call me “Ann the Fan”

because – I admit it – I’m totally obsessed and blown away by my chunky hunky funky monkey.

Yeah, of course. I know he’s not a monkey. He’s the real deal. A giant ape. As Alpha males go he's

definitely Alpha plus! 

And what a sense of humour. He insists I call him “Ping Pong” because whatever I give him he will

always come back at me, looking for more. Ooh, just writing about him gives me chills. Yeah. He’s

a chilla gorilla. A killa gorilla. And whenever I open up to his subtle simian seduction he’s a filla

gorilla. And how!

But not just a “hunka hunka burnin’ love.” A suave, cultured sophisticate. He often escorts me to his

favourite restaurant, Simian’s at the Empire. On the top floor, of course, dining al fresco.

The waiters bow and scrape. He so deserves his celebrity status, my cuddly Congolese Casanova. I

drool over his imposing presence, drowning in those dark brown brooding eyes. His sleek dark fur

dazzlingly reflects the starlight, eclipsing the muted pretension of my mink stole. And such culinary

awareness. Truly a Gourmet among Gorillas. He specialises – no surprise – in bananas. He chooses

for both of us banana-flavoured termite terrine to start the meal. Not just flavoursome but

ecologically discerning. The main is a Mixta Grilla – that’s how the Italian waiter says it - with a

crunchy side salad of spider ants encased in banana leaves. These are not a la carte dishes, of 

course. He has designed them himself and the staff prepare them to honour him whenever he graces

their restaurant with his presence. We finish with the piece de resistance. Banana flambé served 

with “grape” – (Great Ape) – flavoured ice cream. I am so proud of my sexy colossus.

Before we leave the restaurant, he graciously accepts the maitre d’s obsequious request to entertain

the remaining patrons. He rises majestically and beating out the rhythm on his chest with both hands

he croons Ol’ Man River in a voice that would melt concrete and which certainly melts my heart.

Have you worked it out, dear reader? I love this big hairy beast with incandescent passion.

All that remains is to return to his penthouse and spend the rest of the night in the throes of what he

so wittily calls “gorilla (make love not) warfare”. Be still, my beating heart!