Don't. Diary. Don't You Dare.

Oh Diary, Dear Diary,

it's confession time and I know I can trust you. You already know most there is to know about me and still remain non-judgemental so I thought I would share this with you.

You now how long I have been on my own, bar the odd - and sometimes very odd- adventure but I think I may be wandering into the realms of dangerous waters. I won't put myself into situations of danger but you know what I mean. Unchartered territories with as yet uncalculated risks.

Ok, I will try to start at the beginning and not ramble all over the page.

Some months ago I thought I would have a go at internet dating. It is the 21st century and all that. I told myself it could be an adventure. So I signed up with one of the better known sites, posted a profile and an outrageous photo. I figured it would take a certain kind of courage to get past the pic!

Well, many guys were brave enough to get past that pic. In fact I think most of them didn't even register that I had pink hair and put Rugby, wing position, as my favourite participation sport. I don't think the ability to read is a prerequisite for joining this site, judging from the guys I attracted. Well all except for 2. A Circuit Judge and a Buddhist/Taoist. The latter being nearly 20 years my junior.

Met the judge at a local dockside cafe for lunch. He was Ok. A serial dater, tight as a badger's a******e and spoke disrespectfully of his LAST wife. Not for me, but no harm done. Don't think I was his cup of rosey either as our phone calls and desultory emails dwindled into nothing. Or got lost in the ether. Then I went overseas for a few months as you know so that was that.

Once home again I decided to terminate my agreement with the aforementioned site. I log in to cancel my subscription and could not resist reading my mail and seeing who had last "checked me out". There was one cute guy, said he was 55 so i had a look at his profile. Read it a couple of times and then was about to check out and leave when up popped a message from him. He joked that he wasn't just eye candy and that if I was going to check him out the least I could do was to stop by and say hi. Duly did that whereupon he admitted that he was in fact only 45 and had made a mistake in his profile. I told him to get back to the playground but he persisted. We ended up emailing each other. Yes, I know, I gave him my personal email, then my telephone number and it all took off from then. It was FUN. He made me laugh, he flirted, I flirted back and before too long I felt as though I was in a relationship of some wierd but exciting type. His wit was seductive, his geordie accent delicious. I kept a modicum of wit about me. I had seen people make the mistake of thinking they knew on-line strangers and I was not going to fall into that trap. You now what a pragmatist I am.

Well two months have now gone by, we speak several times a week, text almost daily. I feel he is at a crossroads in his life and is reaching out for something, someone. I know it is not really me but I have gone along this road with him. We have had minor spats, disagreements and to hear us on the phone you would think we were really old mates. I HAVE NOT EVEN LOOKED INTO HIS EYES. How can you imagine you know someone you have yet to meet. On one level there is a certain intimacy which comes with anonymity and bit by bit I have a picture of him and a measure of him in a depth that I may not have had had we met in a bar or at a party. We have shared things one does not normally share with anyone but a diary. All this and still I cannot know him because I have not met him. Yet. Or can I? I know what he looks like but megapixels although giving a good image cannot reveal what the first physical meeting does. That unknown quantity. That animal or chemical reaction that marks us out as human and not robot.

It was all quite hot and the beginning and the temperature has settled at way above tepid but nowhere near boiling. It is time to meet. To decide whether we can be the mates we think we are or something more. BUT (bad grammar I am aware) somewhere long the line I decided (and agreed with him) that age was irrelevant. After all I am not about to have his babies. Been there, the T shirt is now a duster. I have also learnt at least one valuable lesson from this, so far. I am no longer going to be afraid to live in the present and have foresworn looking down the tunnel of my tomorrows. So where does this leave me? Feeling like a teenager going on a first blind date? Not quite but there is an element of that. Scared? A bit but what is the worst that can happen? Perhaps I have imbued him with characters he does not possess and vice versa. Maybe when I meet this interesting man I will still find him interesting and even attractive. Maybe one glance will reaffirm how shallow the human persona can be and I will not find him attractive at all, in any way. Then I ask myself who IS this person I have been chatting and writing to for nearly two months? Part of me wishes I could keep him as an old fashioned pen friend, after all we do have a lot in common. My senses tell me I know him but my common sense tells me I cannot. I might think I know what is in his heart and mind but that is without factoring in that magic ingredient that can hardly be described. That unquantifiable ingredient that makes one person attractive to someone but not to somebody else.

We meet on many levels but our lives have little in common. Does this matter? Of course it does. Doesn't it? Am I over analysing this. The internet has provided us with a level of freedom. A freedom to express ourselves in a way that can be scary. Is that what I am afraid of? Allowing myself to be truly myself with someone I have not met. You know how my old journalistic skills are now part of my DNA and I have been able to assure myself that he is what he says he is, at least in terms of his work. He is not an unemployed layabout preying on the middle aged and vulnerable but he could still be manipulative person who is in the habit of pursuing what he sees as vulnerable women.

Update.

All the above is a little academic now. I was going to London to meet one of my brothers over from Oz, se the Summer Show at The RA and go and see The 39 Steps, so I arrange to meet my "pen friend". Remember dear Diary, he was the keen pursuer!! Anyway, tentative arrangements were made. Then he baled on me. Family problems in the North East. Since then a few comments on Facebook and NOTHING. Nada. Rien.

And how do I feel about this? Strangely, unaffected. I think I knew all long it was a bit of a game. Funny what a bit of boredom can be responsible for. Part of me always had reservations but the other part was game for an adventure and perhaps even only the making of another pal. I think he lives in a lonely bubble and makes on-line friends. I guess I should feel sorry for him but I don't. Whatever he has made of his life is mainly by choice. If knowing me for a while gave him some fun well so be it. I don't feel sorry for myself. It was just another experience. A bit like reading a book and not being sure of the ending. Did the book merit that ending? Not sure. Still thinking about this one. Real life obviously scared him. Perhaps he is better off in his bubble. I think I prefer the real world.

Lipstick Lil from Lansdown (Secret Diaries of a Theatrical Landlady) 2

Archives 2001/2011

Some whi

le ago, coming to the end of a long running musical in this part of the world, I was about to say goodbye to two of my latest visitors. They had been with me for quite a long time and we had become pals if not bosom buddies. I reflected on the many different type of people who had stayed under my roof. This time they were not actually “turns” but valuable members of the crew, one mainly concerned with the technical production and all attendant problems and the other an ASM of some years experience. Both real pearls but from very different oysters. One must be from a Dublin Bay oyster – a lover of real ale/stout and real late nights, who staggers downstairs to breakfast in the afternoon on black coffee and a gasper. His complexion had the tell tale hue of public bars and late night haunts. His clothes were also dark. The other was a pearl of a more delicate hue, maybe a pacific oyster. He was a caring, fragile pearl of the vegetarian persuasion. His delicate lobes pierced with many rings, his smokes of the self-rolled variety. His clothes had the air of the handpicked afghan Oxfam style.

My Dublin oyster read the tabloids and his room still had the air of anonymity it had when he arrived. My delicate pearl had volumes of well thumbed poetry, Sebastian Faulks “Birdsong” and photographs of his beloved plus numerous cards blu-tacked to the wall. Chalk and cheese but both delightful in their own ways.

Each new production brings its’ own surprises and I have been fascinated to see how my weekly shop has changed. It used to be the staples of life, our life – my daughter and me and didn’t hold too many surprises or exotic purchases. These days my shopping lists are a testament to how things change. Tea, coffee, sugar, milk, milk of magnesia, dish washer tabs, Resolve, Paracetamol (Oh how I wish they still sold them in 100’s) fruit, veg, salad, pregnancy testing kits, washing up liquid, loo paper, bathroom cleaner, condoms, chicken, bread, orange juice, depilatory cream (for a shy but hirsute young actress) shampoo, conditioner, hair dye (for an ageing would-be Lothario. I don’t ask too many questions when handing over purchases and pocketing the money for said items.

Initially people’s reactions on being told that I am a “Landlady” range from the surprised but interested to the downright put out. The surprised but interested are agog to see who comes in next and the down right disgusted will never get over the shock that I take in LODGERS. I think the latter feel sorry for me and wonder if my late husband didn’t leave me so well off after all!!

On the subject of people’s reactions to this landlady business, let me tell you of a time when I really dug my own grave four fathoms deep. I was at a ladies lunch given by a Lady who Lunches. It was quite a grand affair with several worthies and women of a certain age, decked out in their designer gear or classic clobber and some wearing trophies of the trophy wife variety. One Lady opposite brayed at me “And what do YOU do”. I replied that I did a bit of this; a bit of that and that I also took in “luvvies” (I really don’t mean that in a pejorative way it just seemed the right word at the time). Well that is what I said but not what they heard. “Yes” said I “It is really very interesting, some stay for a week or so, some longer blah blah, it helps dilute the mother/daughter thing, another blah”. There was a stunned silence around the table but I gamely battered on. “The cash comes in handy and it is good for daughter to meet so many interesting people”. Jaws were dropping but unstoppable I carried on “It’s a good way to use the house, the company is great and the crack hilarious”. I stopped at this point as one of the ladies said “How refreshingly honest of you”. I was perplexed to say the least and could not understand why everyone was looking so shocked. Lunch finally over I asked my hostess what was so outrageous about what I had been saying and when she stopped laughing she said “Darling, I think “THEY” think you said LOVERS. My reputation has never recovered and it went around this part of town like a dose of ..Whatever!!

On the other hand it has become – amongst some of the more enlightened of my pals and some of the impoverished aristocracy – quite a “fun” thing to do. Now I have a raft of telephone numbers where I can redirect folk to when I am full, happy in the knowledge that all the places I can recommend are great places to stay, lovely homes opened up by welcoming people, happy to provide top digs at reasonable rates. Perhaps it is time to open an agency.

Of course apart from the entertainment value there are added extras. I get to see the shows, good seats sometimes for free or at house seat rates. I see shows, plays, musicals etc that I might never have bothered with and life is all the more colourful for it. I never cease to be amazed at the variety of interpretations of, say, Richard 111. I think the most ambitious project I have seen was the putting of Aldus Huxley’s Brave New World to music and dance. This was done by a small touring company who travel Europe in a large van, bringing these brave new productions to the European masses. It was terrific, energetic and very, very different. This same company has also done The Canterville Ghost in a similar vein.

I see this Landlady experience as one that enriches my life (aforementioned daughter has now moved to flat in basement of house) and has provided hours of unbridled hilarity and pleasure. Like the night some of a certain show joined my friends and I on my annual Burns Night. On arriving after the show they sat down and joined in with great gusto, pouring whisky from jugs into their bottomless glasses, unprompted they added to the entertainment. Reciting Scottish verse and displaying great virtuosity on the piano, fiddle and penny whistle. One singer (who is coincidentally the greatest Judas ever to set foot on stage) showed us the “majesty” of his voice while he proceeded to delight us with bawdy ballads. The following morning was a whispered affair with aching heads and much consumption of black coffee and orange juice with much resorting to a variety of analgesia.

I have discovered that there is much falling in love on tour. I have been privy to many a maiden in the first flushes of love, crying, “it’s real this time, I know it” from the doorway to my bedroom, clutching onto the door handle with all her might, faint from passion (or lust). Some of these loves survive the run, some survive the week, and some only survive until the real light of day. So far we have had two weddings, three engagements, many causes for divorce plus several lasting relationships. In my opinion this touring business is for the young and unattached. It is easy to fall in lust with someone you see nightly in full war paint and beautifully lit. The combination of theatrical magic and madness together with the elixir of proximity and availability can be heady and dangerous stuff. Weekends loom and tours end and hearts get broken. But hopefully they mend quickly because next week another town, a new cast member and who knows……….this time………it could be the real thing. For a week. For a month.

Lipstick Lil from Lansdown (Secret Diaries of a Theatrical Landlady)1

Archives 2001/2011

Situation Wanted: Middled-aged, postmenopausal widow with one teenage daughter seeks employment. Own teeth, hair, opinions home and car. Doesn’t do mornings, rarely does days. Open to any legal suggestions.

As you can imagine the above ad wouldn’t elicit too may replies. What to do? I had a big house, a big heart, time on my hands and my hands around my daughter’s throat. Knowing more than a few thesps who had stayed with me from time to time – having left it too late to get digs in this city (and having been encouraged by them) I decided to become a Theatrical Landlady.

Smart move. I put myself on the lists of our local theatres and sat and waited.

Phone rings “Hello my name is Blah and I am coming to town in Blah and I wondered if your two rooms are free?”

“Free” I thought “Definitely not” but for £50.00 a week (this was a year or five ago) I thought I would take the plunge. I was INTERVIEWED on the phone.

“Can we use the kitchen?”

“Of course you can” I said, “cooker, hob, juicer, toaster, microwave, washing machine, a shelf in the pantry, your own fridge and as much tea, coffee and paracetamol as you need”.

“Do you have central heating?” “Well, yes, doesn’t everybody?” . Apparently not.

“Can we use the telephone?” “Yes, just drop the money in the box next to phone”. I actually said that but do remember reader; this was before the mobile phone era skyrocketed. The honesty box really worked well, a quick call to a mate who would then phone back and tie my line up for hours.

“Do we have a shower/ bathroom?” “You do, you might have to fight through the makeup on the floor and wrestle my daughter for the first shower but there is another bathroom on the first floor”.

“Can we smoke?” I missed a beat while wondering about smokes of the yellow rizzla variety then replied “Nominally a no smoking house but yes, in desperation”. I now have a “smoke if you like” policy. Found too many folk hanging out of the top windows in life threatening poses desperate for a drag. I have also now become a born-again “social smoker” after many years, the result of too many late nights and empty bottles.

“Do you have any rules?” At the time I hadn’t actually thought of any but having an unnaturally abnormal fear of mice I tentatively suggested no food in the bedrooms. This went down OK so I pondered for a nanosecond before answering “Yes both rooms are available, when are you arriving?”

If asked that question today by young ensemble players I chuck in a second rule “If you are going to work your way through the whole cast, do it in their digs not mine but permanent/ steady (?) Partners welcome”.

That was in the beginning. As with all stories a beginning, middle and an end. I am still some long way along the road and no end in sight, a bit like some of the plays I have since seen.

So this was the inauspicious beginning of a small new career.

I rather anxiously awaited the arrival of my first two guests. Rooms ready, central heating on HIGH (It was January) loo paper in massive quantities, towels hanging neatly on towel rails, double beds with linen smelling sweetly of scented de-ionised water, boiled sweets and bottled water in rooms, plentiful supply of hangers in cupboards. All set.

“As You Like It” was coming to town, some weeks in rehearsal and four in production. My first two were adorable; one a real character playing three roles and the other Audrey the Goatherd who was a real doll. They were an unlikely pair, she in her twenties and he in his late seventies. He was an old salt of the first water. Should have been at home with his feet up instead of treading the boards, but hey ho, what did I know.

I was on my way.

It was a doddle.

They loved the house, enthused over the drawing room, exclaimed over the bathroom with its’ deep Victorian bath and were positively orgasmic over the supply of hot water. I was yet to learn about cold baths, damp walls, no heating, fleas and loo paper as an optional extra etc etc. I have even heard a tale of folk on tour in a remote part of Scotland having to cut sods of peat for burning on an open fire; more of that another day.

We spent several happy weeks together, shared a few glasses of Scottish wine and I was regaled with many stories. We had our dramas, a miscarriage two days before first night and no understudy. My brave goatherd said “I have to go on, I will think about it all later when I have time. No budget for understudies in this production”. Such spirit, such guts, such stupidity to anyone not remotely associated with the theatre.

First night came and went and no further dramas. We all rubbed along well together. No queue in the morning for showers or baths as only teenager was up and about and off to school. Then the thrill of seeing the first of my actors up there and playing their hearts out. My gob was smacked. My elderly Corin floated to earth as an angel in the lat scene of the play and the house erupted. My goatherd captured the audience with her wicked smile and cheeky gait. Guess who clapped and hooted the loudest at the end of the show? Drinks in the bar afterwards – that’s the place to get the low-down.

At the end of that run – my first – we took our fond farewells, they signed my guest book and since then we have kept in touch sporadically. I catch glimpses of my goatherd, saw her in Eastenders, caught her in Casualty, those training grounds for so many.

One of the hidden pleasures of being a landlady is that you get to see your extended family at unexpected times in unexpected places. I can guarantee that at least once a week I will see one of “mine”. I often get calls from some who have been become regulars and friends to tell me when they are on, whether it is for a quick flash in The Bill or a big part in a drama. All the joys of a large family without the pangs of childbirth and the expenses of their education, weddings and divorces.

If you recognize any of your fellow thesps mentioned at any time in this column, don’t tell them. If you recognize yourself, call me!!

Ciao Bella or with air kisses on each cheek, “later Dahhhling”. I may tell you of nefarious happenings and bedhoppings when a certain musical came to town. But then again….. I may not.

Gifted Giving

Archives 2001/2011

Gifted Giving is 99% luck and 1% inspiration. It is often very difficult to find that perfect gift for that perfect person who appears to have everything and wants for nothing. The sad fact is that when you reach a certain age you either have nearly everything you want or what you really want isn’t good for you.

I guess we have all heard that deadly sentence “You are such a hard person to buy for, you’ve got everything”. If only they knew; so you end up with that expensive but hardly exciting gift of cashmere socks or Hermes scarf or gardening voucher or Dead Sea Bath Salts. The list of this type of gift is endless.

I was casually flipping through a magazine today and came across an ad for a magnetic pain relieving device and I am not sure why but I laughed. I immediately visualised that person who has everything opening up a beautifully wrapped gift on that special occasion just to find ….wait for it…………a magnetic bracelet that promises pain relief from everything from arthritis to aching joints, severe cramps, depression and hangovers. It was not really a laughing matter if you suffer from these conditions but I do have a slightly anarchic sense of humour.

Then I was really on a trip and doing mental somersaults around other gifts of a similar nature. How about a token for laser eye surgery from someone with romantic but blurred vision? How about a brightly coloured stair lift with reversible crimson satin and zebra print cushions? Designer incontinence pads in a variety of neon colours and jungle prints. What will you give me for a musical Zimmer frame, accessorised with short safety ribbons and jingling bells? Can’t you just see a plastic commode with built in flashing lights to tell you when you have finished; complete it with a self emptying valve which fills and seals biodegradable pouches. Oh dear, my whole gift giving life is about to change. I feel designer mode coming on.

For the not so nimble fingers a lip stencil for that La Lumley pout every time. How about, for that very special person, a new titanium patella joint with an original etching?

Why don’t we turn present giving for the more mature right around and stand it on its head. For example, I know that my 84-year-old mother wears underwear of only white or natural hues but I bet she would love some red silk knickers. My favourite about to retire orthopaedic surgeon has had enough of Harrods Hampers, I am sure he would like a full body aromatherapy massage from that clever girl at the natural health clinic. The comely one; well rounded girl. My best mate whose age I would not dare reveal has had enough of handbags, perfume, diamonds and even expensive kitsch so how about arranging a karaoke night for her with, by special invitation and bribery, the pop star (or look-alike) of her fantasies. What about the gift of a gigolo for an evening for that desperate divorcee/widow we all know who would like to spit in the eyes of her married friends just once, Dear Lord, just once.

Subscriptions. Now there is a deadly word. Conjures up all kinds of sensible subjects from Gardening, to crocheting and travel; Love Up your PC and Cat Breeding for Retired School Teachers. I think we ought to give our younger children and friends subscriptions for The Oldie and SAGA mags so they can get an insight into how our minds may work and to our older pals subs for European Erotica, Travels with my Vibrator and How To Buy A Joint in seventy different languages. Out with our middle class classics and in with CD’s by Aphex Twin or Alias or Boards of Canada? Who? I don’t know, go buy one and discover your inner teenager. That tattoo you always wanted but were too hidebound to have? Give yourself a present. Get a tattoo, a real one and not one of those poncey stick on jobs. Have an exquisite star tattooed on the base of your pinkie, your husband, wife or lover’s name in beautiful script on your instep.

Write a poem for a friend, lover or enemy and be bold enough to frame it and give it. The perfect gift for your exhibitionist mate? A naturist weekend – pack only imagination. For an uptight uncle, a chanting Buddhist weekend in deepest darkest Devon. For the stressed out executive let’s give an hour in a flotation tank. For the perfectionist pal who is always exquisitely turned out, a paint ball party. The ultimate gift for an ageing hippie with a bad memory, a ticket to Glastonbury.

What to give on a budget? Plenty. First find embarrassing photo of birthday/anniversary person. Second take to Tesco’s Bakery Department where for a nominal sum it can be transferred onto icing and thence to cake. Voila, laughs all round. How clever are you with your pc? How about customising T-shirts…………they might only be worn once but forever give pleasure in the duster drawer. Give a pal a poker lesson. Bugger the beggar that brought you Bridge. Throw an Ann Summers party – forget the Tupperware. Paint someone’s toenails for them, lurid pink or tarty red – male or female, always good for a giggle. Buy ten fun postcards and stamp them first class, tie with ribbon and give, give. Plant a tree – not expensive, lasts forever and is environmentally friendly. Packet some favourite saved seeds with planting instructions - throw in some potting compost and present them already pricked out! Better still plant them up. Create a joke book and write in it some of the best and worst jokes you have ever heard (or can remember).

There is another solution to the whole gift-giving problem. Make a donation to a favourite charity. Not exciting but noble. The thing is that we all probably give to charity in one way or another, possibly have done for years so the givers’ ‘feel good factor’ is missing. Last Christmas two pals got goats in Africa and a very lucky friend a clean well in Pakistan. Check out the Charity web pages.

Why do we give? Is the pleasure of giving greater than that of receiving? I think it is, so essentially we are talking about selfishness here, not selflessness. We give to bring pleasure to someone else and that pleasure they show is actually a gift back to ourselves. The perfect circle. So shall we keep on giving? Shall we give until we drop? Let’s use more imagination, less credit card. More laughter, less cynicism. More creativity, less “anything will do”. Let’s give love; it is usually free and in plentiful supply. We all possess it in abundant measures, should part freely with more of it can never receive enough of it. Love. Conditional or unconditional. The perfect gift. For every occasion.

Sex Lives of the Lesser Liver Spotted Oldie

From Archives 2001/2011

The chances are – if you are reading this magazine, that you either bought it or have picked it up in a place where “oldie” people loiter. So, I am assuming you may be interested in views on sex lives of the Lesser Liver Spotted Oldie.

How does one define an Oldie? A young fogy who is now over 55 and grown into his fogieism? A grumpy older man/woman who is now happy to be of a certain age and able to voice opinions without fear of ridicule? One of the greatest plusses that come with advancing years is that we just don’t really give a damn any more. So what if opinions offend. If they don’t injure anyone surely they are worth voicing. Also the freedom that comes with the ageing process is liberating.

So down to basics, the whole sex thing can be so much more fun now. More, for me, than it was forty odd years ago. Then I worried that I wasn’t slim enough, my boobs weren’t big enough, and I wasn’t sexy enough. Was it good for him, who cared if it was good for me? Well, I do. Now more than ever.

After facing up to and dealing with widowhood in my forties there was rather a barren period while I came to grips with grief, being a single mother to a pubescent daughter, trying out living overseas. My own personal life and sexuality was rather put on the back burner and if there was a setting below simmer, then I was certainly set on that.

Eventually the sheer relentlessness of time inexorably passing helped my middle ages to come alive again. It may have taken almost ten years to flower but at last I blossomed again. It started in a spectacular fashion on a Singapore Airline Business Class flight to London Heathrow. I sat next to a very attractive guy with a gold earring and long hair who had spent his life in the rock music business. As he was settling down with a couple of champagne splits he decided that it would be polite to offer one to his fellow traveller. Well one split led to a bottle, which led to another, and we broke nearly all the rules about safe flying without actually resorting to safe sex. Well, it was a beginning and one, which led to a continuing happy and platonic friendship.

Having been reignited and the burner now on full, I progressed to having a fling with a still unmarried lover from my twenties. Far from the inhibited sex with lights out which we had enjoyed, of days long past there was a joyous delight in the safety of sex with a known quantity. I knew exactly what I was doing and where it was going. Or not as it may turn out and that doesn’t matter either.

The differences between then and now are enormous. The post-coital conversation no longer hinges around “how was it for you” but more along the lines of “are you still breathing”. No fags and take away Chinese more the pros and cons or private health, PEPS, ISA’s and swapping inheritance tax ruses. No roughly rolled illicit joints, more debating the benefits of Pilates over Alexander techniques. No fears of pregnancy, no having to remember to take the pill and having checked out his sexual history, no frantic fumblings with condoms. There is no more rushing upstairs at the same time divesting myself of fitted clothes and unsexy tights. Whilst we don’t actually need the chair lift, the climbing of the stairs is more leisurely. Sometimes we don’t even bother making it upstairs.

There was one memorable occasion when I was relaxing on the floor resting my ageing bad back after a day of tramping around Portobello Market when my lover came to join me. All pain was forgotten and it was all very spontaneous and lovely. Unfortunately it took rather longer and we missed our performance of Two Gentlemen of Verona in Regents’ Park but these days one has to pace oneself. The theatre can wait, spontaneous coupling cannot. One has to seize the day, the hour and the minute.

No more long term planning for the future but more celebrations of the present. No more wondering whether he will call but more wondering if he is still alive!! I guess the downside, if there has to be one, is that time is not really on our side. Having had a full life though, that doesn’t really seem to be a problem. We don’t want to get married, move in with each other, and share closet space and shower gel. I love going back to my own home and carrying on with the life I have made. He does too. I really enjoy the odd trip to Paris and places foreign, which don’t need endless planning and luggage. Travel light and shop heavy is one of my new mantras. I can be in London and ready for an adventure at the drop of a Gold Card. I can shut up the house and clear off without answering to anyone.

And I am not the only one. A close friend of mine, a retired classics scholar and 72 in the shade, has just discovered lust, true love and good sex for the first time and has never been happier. Eros is no longer appearing in dusty worthy tomes but in her bedroom nightly. She has been married twice; divorced once, widowed once and with one other long-term relationship under her belt she is now embarking on the most fulfilling and erotic adventure of her life. She has never been happier. Her partner seems pretty pleased with himself as well.

Maybe when I am an older Oldie instead of a Junior Oldie, I may get interested again in the safety of a committed relationship, with his and hers bathrobes, pensions, single beds, shared grandchildren, and slippers gently warming by the radiator. For now bring on the frenzy of friendly intercourse without the sick desperation of younger love. Let me enjoy the freedom of my older body sagging here and here but no longer constricted in 18-hour girdles. I thank God, Buddha and the fashion industry for unstructured clothing with elasticated waists. Let’s face it, he has aged too and is still 10 years my senior. He may have a heart murmur but he can still murmur all the right words. The only thing that is a blot on the landscape is what to do if I wake up one morning in a Paris apartment to find out that when the snoring stopped in the middle of the night the rigor mortis kicked in. How the hell do I get the body into the car and across the channel without anyone noticing? That is one stiff problem not to have raised its head yet. The one thing we haven’t discussed is what to do if that were to happen. Oh, well, it gives me some more interesting pillow talk to look forward to the next time we meet.

And if all this seems somewhat without passion then one of us has got it wrong, Reader. The passion is there; the difference is that the passion isn’t the sum total. The sum total is all the years that made arriving at this point possible. Probable. Enjoyable. Guilt free. Gilt edged.

1235 words.

FRIDAY`

Another five day week tripped by

with work fulfilled,

some dreams undreamt

it slipped out without goodbye.

The days and hours,

minutes and beats of heart

have gone. Some wasted,

some cleansed in showers.

The two days left,

as yet unspent,

still have bright promise,

there's been no theft.

There is time in the bank,

it's not overdrawn.

Some cheques not cashed,

not spent, still blank.