Q. Some time ago, whilst on the way back from visiting relatives by the coast, my car gave a hop and a stutter and I was forced to pull over in a leafy lay-by where I proceeded to kick my tyres, as I bent myself double trying to get reception on my mobile. Just as I had given up hope and I prepared my thumb for a good old fashioned hitching, a slightly overweight, balding and blinged up lorry driver stepped out from his cab and offered us his assistance. I don’t know if it was the rough Yorkshire accent, the swallow tattoo or the smell of diesel that did it, but before I knew it I was cuddled up in the cab with my knickers round his CB, getting to grips with a big 10-4.

Afterwards, feeling somewhat flustered as my new found friend examined my big end and got my back on the road, I agreed to meet my grimy grease monkey for another traffic side tryst and have been seeing him regularly ever since.

Problem is, I am married and my husband is getting suspicious of my late night trips to ‘Tesco’ and has recently found copies of Truck Driving Weekly. Our sex life has gone downhill as its just not the same without a gear knob stuck in your back and a hand break against your head, what should I do, leave my hubby for a life on the road or convert the box room in a Bedford Rascal?

A. We’re quite the slut aren’t we? There’s nothing wrong with a bit of rough every now and again, dear, but things really have gone too far. We have to examine what is turning you on here; is it sex with the poor or perhaps it’s the intimacy of the motor vehicle that gets your quim quivering?

First try having sex in a normal place – the kitchen, stairs or, for novelty, try the bed. However make sure you do this with someone homeless and preferably a bit smelly. If you’re still as sparky as a box of matches after that, then I can recommend a good therapist – you need one. If however, this fails to relight your fire then amuse yourself with a jaunt and a jump in the family car – it may not be an eighteen wheeler but you can still perform a trick or two in a Vauxhall Nova believe me. I can feel it in my whiskers that a quick tumble against the parcel shelf will have you feeling right as rain and you’ll forget all about your Lay-by Lothario.

Q. For some time now I have been having lustful thoughts about my Great Aunt and its getting to the point that I am finding it hard to control myself. Ever since I was a child, the sight of her reaching up for her cami knickers on the washing line and seeing a glimpse of corned beef calf under her tabard has sent my legs to jelly. Now as I have reached adulthood, I have become more and more fixated on her and recently risked all by playing footsie under the dinning room table at a family gathering. I think she thought it was the dog, as when I started getting braver in my fumblings she complained about its wet nose.

Oh Caustic, how do I pluck up the courage to reveal my true feelings to my femme fatale family member and let her know who’s been stealing her knickers?

A. Oh what a to do, I really don’t know where to start – I mean cami knickers who wears those anymore? After giving your problem my full attention – well for all of 30 seconds anyway – I have come to the conclusion that you are a sick and deranged sexual deviant – have we dated? If you insist on travelling on this doomed course of love I have only one recommendation – do not wear a condom. Hopefully you will inseminate your dear old aunt and produce a freak child, which Benetton would be sure to snap up for their next advertising campaign. Alternatively, you could sell the one eyes little beast to the circus so people can graze upon the produce of your ugly love forever.

We welcome back are tagged tabby to the role of Agony Aunt Extraordinaire and invite you to send in your problems, no matter how small, embarrassing, disgusting or illegal just type your words to info@69-247.com.

Q. My wife and I had a fairy-tale wedding two years ago and what a day it was, but since then things have grown very far from castles and woodland creatures flocking at our windows in a burst of morning song. I fear my pretty perfect princess may be getting her rocks off with a pre-thirties prince (I’ve seen her waiting at the college gates near our house). Admittedly I have changed a little since we met, my hairline has receded whilst my waistline has gone much the opposite, but I’m still the same person inside, even if my shell needs a bit of work and I still love her very much. Tell me please what can I do?

A.  Whilst I do pity you at the hands of infidelity, do you really see it as such a surprise? If your neck looks like it’s blowing bubblegum and your wife’s hot hunky

hubby has slipped into a huge and hefty heifer almost overnight what more can you expect? My dear, perhaps she quite simply baulks at the thought of you writhing about out of breath and sweating on top of her. It’s no wonder she crept elsewhere – us Kitty’s are very shallow creatures. Hit the gym and if that doesn’t work then hit the road and find yourself an Ugly Sister, because otherwise your princess will continue to slip off to Never Never Land with her Peter Pan.

Q. Whilst romping with my ravishing new beau, a relatively frequent occurrence to pass the time on a dull Wednesday evening, I was disturbed mid ecstasy by the return of his girlfriend – an old chum of mine who I often shared a bottle of wine with when discussing their wedding plans. How unfair that she should return from her business trip two days early. She never even thought to phone first.

My dear friend punched me in the nose breaking it in two places, quite a feat for a seven stone super waif, I was pretty impressed, but even so I’ve decided I’m suing her perfectly pert butt for as much as I can wring out of her. Who knows I might even take her fiancé too. Do you know of any good solicitors I can get my hands on?

Romping with your ravishing new beau! How terribly Jane Eyre of you! Sounds to me like you’ve had your hands on quite enough already. You’re the Queen of Tarts and your best pal is Alice In Wonderland – as in it’s a wonder she didn’t chop you into little bits and feed you to the pigeons…mmm pigeons…ahem, sorry…Best thing you can do? Lock yourself in a small dark room for a few years to protect all those other poor souls that call themselves your friends. You tramp.

Q. I fear that things are soon to end between my hubby and I. It’s not that I don’t love him anymore, or even that he doesn’t love me, but my once perfect man has turned more slug than stud. He lost his job, unfortunate in this present climate, and has since barely tried to re-enter the world of employment, preferring instead to languish in the deathly hallows of the unwashed – our local. Much as I try, he won’t listen to my complaints and suggestions, simply saying he’s got it under control. I’m getting frustrated and I’m on my marks to get set and go. What can I do?

A. My, my, my, your hubby should have just saved time and married his mother-in-law shouldn’t he. What a nag you are. Just because some of us choose to languish, it does not mean that we are unwashed – it’s a pretty purrfect pastime by all accounts. I’m sure that once he finds the ideal role that he will don his work suit once again, but until then are you sure that it’s you that might be leaving, because honey you’ve given me a headache, let alone that man you call your own.