Why multi-tasking mothers yearn for Fifty Shades of Grey His bedroom is vast. The ceiling-height windows look out on lit-up Seattle high-rises. The walls are white, and the furnishings are pale blue. The enormous bed is ultramodern, made of rough grey wood like driftwood, four posts but no canopy. On the wall above it is a stunning painting of the sea. The best minds in publishing are at work trying understand the rampant success of Fifty Shades of Grey. EL James's "mummy porn" trilogy has just overtaken Harry Potter as the fastest-selling paperback ever. Women on every sunlounger are getting hot under the kaftan reading the story of 22-year-old virgin Anastasia Steele, invited to sign a contract for submissive sex with gorgeous yet troubled billionaire Christian Grey. Over 31 million copies have been sold in less time than it takes to chain the missus to a Hostess trolley. Actually, it's not that complicated to work out why the book is eliciting worldwide whimpers of pleasure. As the extract above proves, while women are quite keen on sex, what we really, really like is soft furnishings. (Try to imagine a male writer referencing a Farrow and Ball paint colour during the climactic deflowering of his heroine. It's never going to happen.) Make no mistake: E L James is not a good writer. No decent novelist would allow that clunky repetition of wood and driftwood in the same sentence. Still, the author has the combination of high references and low cunning necessary to produce a tale which manages to be seductive and tasteful instead of merely sad and sordid. Mr Grey, as Anastasia calls him with the teasing formality of an 18th-century heroine, is not your common or garden pervert. Conveniently, he is 27 rather than 47, which would make him creepy. He is devastatingly sexy, endowed with what the author coyly calls "his impressive length." But he is also remarkably considerate. Anastasia's arthritic VW Beetle is replaced overnight by an Audi coupé. Plane tickets mysteriously upgrade themselves and luxurious lingerie appears at the end of the driftwood four-poster. Not only does Christian have an unlimited supply of loose white linen shirts and "beautiful, sculptured lips," he flies his own helicopter and has a grand piano on which he plays exquisitely melancholy Barry Manilow. Just kidding. He plays exquisitely melancholy Bach, which, he tells an entranced Miss Steele, is "a transcription from an oboe concerto by Alessandro Marcello." Honestly, it would be a privilege to be blindfolded by such a fine, cultivated fellow! When Christian, a part-time philanthropist, is not busy trying to solve world hunger, he takes Anastasia to his Red Room of Pain (I'm thinking Farrow and Ball's Incarnadine). There, among the shackles, he displays the same exquisite taste and care. No wham bam, thank you very much, ma'am, for him. On the state-of-the-art sound system, it's Thomas Tallis's sublime Renaissance anthem Spem in Alium. Tallis would be a bit startled to discover that his polyphonic motet has become a top tune for DIY sadists, hurtling to No 1 in the classical music chart. Meanwhile, Ann Summers this week reported an increase in sales of the sex aids which appear in Fifty Shades, including blindfolds (up 60 per cent) and rope ties (35 per cent). Jiggle balls - no, not jingle bells, madam, do keep up! - are bouncing off the shelves. If you notice girls in the office starting to walk like Dick Emery, you'll know why. International bestsellers do not have to possess any literary merit. None the less, they are culturally interesting because they satisfy a hunger the reader didn't know was there. So, are we to conclude from the phenomenal success of Fifty Shades of Grey that what women have been gagging for is to be, well, gagged? He likes to hurt women. The thought depresses me," says Anastasia in a rare moment of bleak clarity, before she succumbs once more to Christian's impressive length on 100 per cent Egyptian cotton sheets. Fifty Shades of Grey is a shocking book, alright. Not because it's deviant, but because the ambitions of its heroine are so conventional. It is remarkable that, as we prepare to celebrate the 200th anniversary of Pride and Prejudice in 2013, Jane Austen would recognise only too well the nature of the transaction between the haughty, exceedingly rich, handsome Mr Grey and the young, spirited, virginal Miss Steele. Women have never had so much opportunity or power as we have today, nor ever been so knackered. Equality has brought an often resentful truce in the war between the sexes, and precious little sex. I notice EL James is a middle-aged woman who works while bringing up two teenage sons. Far from wandering a penthouse in silk cami-knickers, the Fifty Shades author is a rather stolid figure who lives in a semi near Ealing, washes her son's rugby kit, drinks sauvignon blanc and eats Nutella off a spoon. Her husband Niall's nickname for her is "dragon," which doesn't sound all that submissive, does it? Oh, and her husband snores and describes himself on Twitter as "short-order cook and dragon-handler." No wonder women weep on sunloungers and crave firm handling from dominant males who inhabit the frictionless world of the super-rich. Fifty Shades enables us to take a holiday from our multi-tasking selves, and let someone else take charge for once. Here's the book's dirty little secret, the thing that made that lady on the lounger cry; it isn't even about sex. It's about yearning to be at the mercy of an expert touch rather than struggling and failing to be expert in every area of an over-busy life. A foolish dream, I know, but a dream none the less. I think we can be forgiven, don't you? The hapless Mr Buckles is simply not officer material Do you think there's a bit in the Military Covenant that explains why our soldiers, just back from the living hell of Helmand, must fill the gaping holes in Olympics" security? That's all they need. A bed in an east London warehouse while they try to clear up the shambles left by G4S. The Covenant refers to the mutual obligation between the nation and its Forces. I am ashamed to say there's no longer anything mutual about those obligations. Asking the Army to pick up the pieces at the Olympics is a bloody cheek, quite frankly, when distinguished old regiments like the Green Howards are about to be lost for ever. But we know we can rely on the Army to carry out its duties cheerfully, professionally and in clear English. How unlike Nick Buckles, chief executive of G4S. With his Caramac tan and strenuous blow-dry, Mr Buckles looks like a man who could just about run a wine bar in the Fulham Road. Circa 1989. The £830,000-a-year Buckles is simply not officer material. No regiment would have the blighter. Not with that haircut or staggering disregard for the public good. Mr Buckles doesn't see why his useless firm should give up its £57 million management fee. Let's get a bunch of ex-squaddies from the Green Howards to explain to him, shall we? The Chief of the Defence Staff should tell the Government that troops are delighted to be able to dig them out of an embarrassing hole. But the price for doing so, he should add politely, is for all regimental cuts to be repealed forthwith. Or else, one day we will call in the Army and there will be no Army left. Texting away our voice Look into my crystal ball. It is England, 2045, and the last voice has been heard in the land. Vocal chords have withered through lack of use. A larynx is on display at the Science Museum to remind visitors of how people used to talk in the days before texting. Other extinct species include the landline, chatty email and even something unrecognisable called "the letter." According to Ofcom, texting is now the most popular form of communication among British adults. The average person sends 200 texts a month, which is pretty feeble compared with the 100 or more a day sent by American teenagers. If you want to get the attention of their British counterparts, you are far better off texting them than braving the debris of their room. The Daughter will actually respond to my texts, although she regards my use of punctuation and capital letters as LOL. Soon we will hear people saying, "I'm a 60 a day man. I've got to cut down. But texting, like smoking, may prove a habit almost impossible to break.