Oh isn't it a fantasy scenario for us oldies; passing on our knowledge and power to a youthful suitor who's all turbo charged? Guilt free and harmless? You could put money on at Ladbroke's that your handsome young stud wouldn't dare tell his mother what he's been up to at a weekend and you certainly won't be on his Facebook page unless he's into MIL*ing in a big way. How do I know so much? Well I had a fling with someone half my age too but there won't be a lucrative book deal in my story. Having been a carer for a while, I'd been out of the dating game for far too long and found myself thinking much like Ann Reid's character in Roger Mitchell's brilliant film, The Mother. She starts to wonder if she'll ever be kissed again and on reaching out finds Daniel Craig in her garden. And so, resigned to singularity, I reached out and found Adamski in my IT server room. Phew again? It's hard to imagine how much passion can be expended behind a rack of multi-coloured cables but we managed it without getting sacked and in an air-conditioned environment which would rival the South Pole. Odd that I never looked flushed when I returned to my desk.
Much groping ensued but it all came to a disappointing head after the Xmas meal when I stayed at his place with its paper thin walls and wonky toilet requiring a pair of pliers to operate the flush mechanism. Driving home in the early hours I kidded myself that all was well. Inside, I couldn't escape the nagging gripe in my gut that this could only end one way; badly. True to form, we progressed from quick snog to 'Been there! Done that! Next!' in 14 days. And by breaking all the rules, I broke my own heart right down the middle at the exact moment when he flopped next to my desk and announced,
"Hey, I've met this amazing woman online. Met up in the pub last night. Love of my life. I know she is. You'd like her." I despised her even though I never got to meet her yet for months afterwards I felt powerless, searching the mirror for every new wrinkle or a feather out of place. Imagine my humiliation when I found out he'd done it all for a bet. Just because he could. A couple of years later he invited me to his wedding to a completely different woman. I didn't go but he still sent me the photos. Would you have gone or sent a gift? No, me neither.
These days, the most excitement I can expect is the odd innuendo when flashing my knees in the lift on Thursdays and Fridays, the only days of the week I wear a skirt to work. Mainly I'm content and staying well away from much-younger eye candy for my tattered ego's sake. And so I was a bit startled when Alphonse peered out from under the paper and said,
"Fancy dressing up this weekend?" I'm a bit past bodice-ripping and my french maid's outfit went to charity years ago and although my dress sense is described by Frangipani as 'alien' I'm nowhere near as scary-looking as the mature poster lady in the T K Maxx near me. Square silver bob, silver leather jacket; stylist on acid. And there's no way I'm dressing up as a Carry On era nurse - what can you be thinking? Recovering my composure, I asked what he had in mind.
"Dr Who convention. Me Tom Baker, you Lala Ward. National Space Centre." It turned out that the real Lala Ward would be there and we look similar enough to be a bit creepy, so I adopted the guise of Billy Piper's Rose from the episode 'The Long Game' and dug out my red and black catsuit; with matching lippy de rigeur. What a brilliant weekend, surrounded by Daleks and Cybermen, being boiled alive in the queue for Red Dwarf autographs and again to gaze fondly at Paul McGann who then turned me into a gibbering idiot when he said "Hi." I have photos with steam rising behind the Tardis and of Alphonse being gassed by a rocket engine igniting during tea break. Joyfully, we rolled home like two five year olds with a crate of Thunderbirds memorabilia, a sonic screwdriver for Alphonse and a plastic model of the 8th Doctor for me. And looking back in quiet moments, with my wing strapped to my chest, I feel genuinely sorry for Monica Porter and her toyboys; she can keep them. Who needs Ann Summers when you've got science fiction?
Tip of the Beak: I've spent the morning in The Range hunting for storage solutions, a new squirrel-proof bird feeder and a lampshade. In the cafe upstairs, Alphonse drew my attention to the 1970s-style tannoy announcements; each repeated twice and loud enough to curdle the excellent coffee. "When my hearing finally goes" he quipped, "I'll miss all of this."
Raven
