It’s been a bit of a wild weekend. No, not like that . . . it’s just that I’ve been followed around by three different film crews. I mean honestly, what’s a girl to do? No film crews for simply ages, then just like buses, three come along all at once!
My inner Media Whore rose to the occasion with the usual aplomb, posing and preening for the cameras, trawling out my much-told tales, trying to find a new slant on the way I relate the fact that I enjoy the company of younger men.
If only they would ask me different questions, I’d be able to give them different answers . . .
It all began on Friday afternoon with an insightful interview with the delightful Jo Good for the BBC1 series 'Inside Out' to be aired on Valentine’s Day.
This was swiftly followed on Saturday by ze French TV peeple, marching into my apartment like Napoleon's army, rifling through my wardrobe, picking out what they thought I ought to wear, moving my furniture around and directing me to tell zem exactly what it eez zat I like about ze boyztoyz.
They filmed me in the (disrupted) comfort of my own home then took me hostage and made me drive them to the Toyboy Warehouse Xmas Party (Zut alors! Quel chore!) where they continued their interrogation while I tried to act normal and work my way through a whole gaggle of gorgeous guys.
Another crew were already filming there and it seemed greedy to hog them as well, so I didn’t, but then Auntie Beeb turned up again and we had to continue what we’d started in the Ladies Room as the party was so crowded and noisy by that time, I couldn’t hear myself flirt.
I’d be lying if I said I don’t enjoy the media spotlight. Something inside me opens up like a flower when the cameras start to roll and I feel myself growing and glowing. It’s probably a bit late to find one's preferred milieu at the age of 63, but I guess it’s better to find it late than not find it at all.
Now I have to work hard on keeping that spotlight shining. Plans are afoot. Watch this space. . .
Sunday, 6 December 2009
Sunday, 29 November 2009
ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE...
An old – and I mean positively ancient – friend of mine just lost his wife after 45 years. They’d worked and lived together 24/7 and her sudden death came as an agonizing blow.
When I spoke to him immediately after it happened, the first thing he did was to come on to me. We’d always enjoyed a bit of a flirt and I liked him well enough, but there was no way I was going to show interest in such sensitive circumstances, apart from which he’s far too old for me (72!) and I never fancied him anyway.
Days after the poor woman was barely cold in her grave, the bereaved husband was on the internet seeking solace. He complained about early-onset loneliness, the hollow emptiness of his house, the terror of climbing the stairs to bed each night and not finding her there. Those of us who’ve suffered human loss of any sort can certainly relate to that.
His sons, grandchildren, business colleagues and friends could not console him. He needed another woman! And fast! Enter Ms Russia. Oh how we groaned . . .
Don’t you realise what she wants? said one. She’s hardly after you for your looks, said another. This is disrespectful to J’s memory, said a third. Give yourself time to grieve, said a fourth. No fool like an old fool! they all said in unison.
The trouble is, emotionally, men are not strong. Especially men who’ve been looked after all their lives – washing and ironing done, food on the table, children reared and packed off into the world. OK, I know they have to bring home the bacon and provide the means, but a widowed woman is a very different animal to a widowed man.
And so Mr. T started dating Ms Russia long-distance and became hooked. Late night conversations soon became intimate and revelatory as they do without the naked exposure of eye-to-eye contact. In fairness, she’s no spring chicken, but life in the West is a great draw and she soon professed undying love.
They met in the summer, planned their future in the autumn, and get married this winter. Poor J hasn’t been gone six months - no wonder some of his kids have disowned him and his friends are saying: “Good on ya, mate” to his face and screwing their fingers into their temples behind his back.
But is he so wrong? Should he have waited? Come to terms with his loss, let time be the healer and all those other platitudes we’re told to suffer. Aren’t we all just looking for love (maybe in all the wrong places) but grateful anyway for whatever form it takes?
He says she’s saved him - if it hadn’t been for her, he’d have topped himself. And if, as he reckons, he only has 10 or 15 years left, why should he spent them in misery and pain if there’s a woman out there willing to spend them with him?
I take my hat off to a man who’s recognized his weaknesses and pro-activated himself a happier future even if society disapproves. I wish them both joy. If they’ve found something in each other that no one else can provide, then good luck to them.
As the Beatles sang: All you need is love . . .
When I spoke to him immediately after it happened, the first thing he did was to come on to me. We’d always enjoyed a bit of a flirt and I liked him well enough, but there was no way I was going to show interest in such sensitive circumstances, apart from which he’s far too old for me (72!) and I never fancied him anyway.
Days after the poor woman was barely cold in her grave, the bereaved husband was on the internet seeking solace. He complained about early-onset loneliness, the hollow emptiness of his house, the terror of climbing the stairs to bed each night and not finding her there. Those of us who’ve suffered human loss of any sort can certainly relate to that.
His sons, grandchildren, business colleagues and friends could not console him. He needed another woman! And fast! Enter Ms Russia. Oh how we groaned . . .
Don’t you realise what she wants? said one. She’s hardly after you for your looks, said another. This is disrespectful to J’s memory, said a third. Give yourself time to grieve, said a fourth. No fool like an old fool! they all said in unison.
The trouble is, emotionally, men are not strong. Especially men who’ve been looked after all their lives – washing and ironing done, food on the table, children reared and packed off into the world. OK, I know they have to bring home the bacon and provide the means, but a widowed woman is a very different animal to a widowed man.
And so Mr. T started dating Ms Russia long-distance and became hooked. Late night conversations soon became intimate and revelatory as they do without the naked exposure of eye-to-eye contact. In fairness, she’s no spring chicken, but life in the West is a great draw and she soon professed undying love.
They met in the summer, planned their future in the autumn, and get married this winter. Poor J hasn’t been gone six months - no wonder some of his kids have disowned him and his friends are saying: “Good on ya, mate” to his face and screwing their fingers into their temples behind his back.
But is he so wrong? Should he have waited? Come to terms with his loss, let time be the healer and all those other platitudes we’re told to suffer. Aren’t we all just looking for love (maybe in all the wrong places) but grateful anyway for whatever form it takes?
He says she’s saved him - if it hadn’t been for her, he’d have topped himself. And if, as he reckons, he only has 10 or 15 years left, why should he spent them in misery and pain if there’s a woman out there willing to spend them with him?
I take my hat off to a man who’s recognized his weaknesses and pro-activated himself a happier future even if society disapproves. I wish them both joy. If they’ve found something in each other that no one else can provide, then good luck to them.
As the Beatles sang: All you need is love . . .
Friday, 20 November 2009
HAVANA WONDERFUL TIME...
My best friend’s gone off to Cuba and I’m feeling a bit spare. I could have gone with her but the time isn’t right as I have ‘stuff’ going on and am also deeply immersed in writing my next novel.
I’m also more than slightly susceptible to anyone who ‘purrs’ at night. Had she committed this most cardinal of all sins and disturbed my precious sleep, I would have had to kill her. Then I would have lost my best friend and my freedom which would have been stupid on both counts.
You see we normally speak every morning to talk about last night and every night to talk about the day ahead. So in her absence, I’ll just have to talk to you instead.
The question I’m posing, after a recent date, is: how much sex is too much sex? And do men ever actually think they’ve had enough? I don’t mean in the post-orgasmic afterglow when they’re either fast asleep or trying to figure out how soon they can leave without seeming rude, but in general terms like: there’s no one special in my life at the moment, so I’ll just switch off until someone comes along. I’m guessing the answer is NO.
Some women can go for months or even years without sex and it doesn’t bother them in the slightest. There’s always the faithful Lapin who loves one unconditionally but with great passion and goes back in its box when one’s had one’s fill.
Women don’t deploy an ‘every seven second’ mechanism whereby whatever they’re doing, they’re also having a mental wank at the same time. When my mind is otherwise occupied, the part of my brain that controls desire cruises on neutral. It’s only when someone comes along and rings my bells that it cranks back into gear again.
I don’t think men have that neutral facility. It’s a design fault, like the one
G-d made when he put the definitive female pulse point in a place inaccessible to the male organ just when it’s needed the most. (Again. . . Hail O Rabbit! – I love thee well!)
Despite our neutral ability, there have also been times when a lover, whoever he may be, has satisfied me sufficiently that the first thought that enters my head is: Thank you very much, you can go home now. I don’t much like room or bed-sharing, which is another reason why I’m writing this in London as opposed to Cuba!
Although I’m partial to a morning cuddle, I haven’t worked out a polite way of asking said lover to piss off and go and sleep in the other room. but to please creep back in when he thinks I’m ready for him next morning.
Had I been discussing all this with my absent friend, she would by now have voiced an opinion, shared some stories and made me laugh. Us girls always enjoy commenting on each other's love lives - it’s aural voyeurism or auralism, if that’s a word, and if it’s not, I’ve just invented it.
So there you have it. Random thoughts. Must go now. I’m trying to organise an End of Year Party for 30 people to include champagne, canapés, a buffet brunch and Hollywood musical film show on a very tight budget. Any suggestions would be gratefully accepted!
I’m also more than slightly susceptible to anyone who ‘purrs’ at night. Had she committed this most cardinal of all sins and disturbed my precious sleep, I would have had to kill her. Then I would have lost my best friend and my freedom which would have been stupid on both counts.
You see we normally speak every morning to talk about last night and every night to talk about the day ahead. So in her absence, I’ll just have to talk to you instead.
The question I’m posing, after a recent date, is: how much sex is too much sex? And do men ever actually think they’ve had enough? I don’t mean in the post-orgasmic afterglow when they’re either fast asleep or trying to figure out how soon they can leave without seeming rude, but in general terms like: there’s no one special in my life at the moment, so I’ll just switch off until someone comes along. I’m guessing the answer is NO.
Some women can go for months or even years without sex and it doesn’t bother them in the slightest. There’s always the faithful Lapin who loves one unconditionally but with great passion and goes back in its box when one’s had one’s fill.
Women don’t deploy an ‘every seven second’ mechanism whereby whatever they’re doing, they’re also having a mental wank at the same time. When my mind is otherwise occupied, the part of my brain that controls desire cruises on neutral. It’s only when someone comes along and rings my bells that it cranks back into gear again.
I don’t think men have that neutral facility. It’s a design fault, like the one
G-d made when he put the definitive female pulse point in a place inaccessible to the male organ just when it’s needed the most. (Again. . . Hail O Rabbit! – I love thee well!)
Despite our neutral ability, there have also been times when a lover, whoever he may be, has satisfied me sufficiently that the first thought that enters my head is: Thank you very much, you can go home now. I don’t much like room or bed-sharing, which is another reason why I’m writing this in London as opposed to Cuba!
Although I’m partial to a morning cuddle, I haven’t worked out a polite way of asking said lover to piss off and go and sleep in the other room. but to please creep back in when he thinks I’m ready for him next morning.
Had I been discussing all this with my absent friend, she would by now have voiced an opinion, shared some stories and made me laugh. Us girls always enjoy commenting on each other's love lives - it’s aural voyeurism or auralism, if that’s a word, and if it’s not, I’ve just invented it.
So there you have it. Random thoughts. Must go now. I’m trying to organise an End of Year Party for 30 people to include champagne, canapés, a buffet brunch and Hollywood musical film show on a very tight budget. Any suggestions would be gratefully accepted!
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
THE GREATEST LOVE OF ALL
“So this date you’ve got tonight – are you going to take her home with you?” my girlfriend asked.
“Absolutely” I answered with conviction.
“And later – are you going to go to bed with her?”
“Yes I am,” I said equally confidently. “I can’t guarantee we’ll have sex but I’m definitely going to sleep with her.”
Let me explain: last Monday night, I took myself off to the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden to see my favourite ballet Mayerling. It was a late decision, the house was sold out but I managed to acquire the one last decent seat in the house.
I felt rather brave attending such an illustrious occasion on my own but I really wanted to see Carlos Acosta performing in the role and you don't get him prancing about at the local Odeon.
I had a few apprehensions about entering the enormous Vilar Floral Hall bar by myself during the two 20 minute intervals and had I been completely wussy about it, I could have simply stayed in my seat. I was, however, determined to enjoy the whole experience and so I did.
Mayerling was a feast for all the senses - not many people could choreograph a story about a syphilitic, morphine-addicted womanising Crown Prince of the Austro-Hungarian Empire who died in a suicide pact with one of his mistresses and make it entertaining, but the late, great Kenneth Macmillan certainly managed to.
While I was sipping my glass of champagne and enjoying my cashew nuts, a couple of men looked at me and smiled. A couple of women looked at me then looked away again. I didn’t care. I was dressed up to the nine and half weeks and I’d paid the price of my ticket.
And now I’ve fought the fear and done it anyway, I’ll never be afraid of going to the theatre, cinema or away on holiday on my own ever again.
Another evening concerned a young gentleman I’ve been texting for some time with whom I finally made a date to cook with only to have him cancel at the last minute ‘due to illness’.
The date was rescheduled, duly confirmed, a menu decided upon, the shopping done and guess what? The little f*cker cancelled again - ‘called away on business’ or so he said!
What is it with some blokes that they just feel they can just fiddle around with your agenda when all you’d really like them to do is fiddle around with you?
Anyway, nothing lost. I called in my first reserve and had a thoroughly enjoyable evening eating all the delicious goodies and watching TV on the sofa. And then we went to bed.
Learning to Love Yourself is Truly the Greatest Love of All!
“Absolutely” I answered with conviction.
“And later – are you going to go to bed with her?”
“Yes I am,” I said equally confidently. “I can’t guarantee we’ll have sex but I’m definitely going to sleep with her.”
Let me explain: last Monday night, I took myself off to the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden to see my favourite ballet Mayerling. It was a late decision, the house was sold out but I managed to acquire the one last decent seat in the house.
I felt rather brave attending such an illustrious occasion on my own but I really wanted to see Carlos Acosta performing in the role and you don't get him prancing about at the local Odeon.
I had a few apprehensions about entering the enormous Vilar Floral Hall bar by myself during the two 20 minute intervals and had I been completely wussy about it, I could have simply stayed in my seat. I was, however, determined to enjoy the whole experience and so I did.
Mayerling was a feast for all the senses - not many people could choreograph a story about a syphilitic, morphine-addicted womanising Crown Prince of the Austro-Hungarian Empire who died in a suicide pact with one of his mistresses and make it entertaining, but the late, great Kenneth Macmillan certainly managed to.
While I was sipping my glass of champagne and enjoying my cashew nuts, a couple of men looked at me and smiled. A couple of women looked at me then looked away again. I didn’t care. I was dressed up to the nine and half weeks and I’d paid the price of my ticket.
And now I’ve fought the fear and done it anyway, I’ll never be afraid of going to the theatre, cinema or away on holiday on my own ever again.
Another evening concerned a young gentleman I’ve been texting for some time with whom I finally made a date to cook with only to have him cancel at the last minute ‘due to illness’.
The date was rescheduled, duly confirmed, a menu decided upon, the shopping done and guess what? The little f*cker cancelled again - ‘called away on business’ or so he said!
What is it with some blokes that they just feel they can just fiddle around with your agenda when all you’d really like them to do is fiddle around with you?
Anyway, nothing lost. I called in my first reserve and had a thoroughly enjoyable evening eating all the delicious goodies and watching TV on the sofa. And then we went to bed.
Learning to Love Yourself is Truly the Greatest Love of All!
Sunday, 25 October 2009
GRIEF ENCOUNTER...
Someone asked me recently if, after so many meanderings through the labyrinths of life, I didn’t now hanker deep down for a long-term, settled, committed relationship.
Having given what some may say were 'the best years of my life’ to marriage (all through my 20s and all through my 30s) plus a further 7 years from 49 to 56 to long-term, settled, committed relationships only to have them not work out, I now know what suits me and what doesn't:
Wabi-Sabi: a Japanese expression meaning The Beauty of Impermanence.
The trouble with the merging of men and women is that we both want different things. On the basis of there being, say, 10 levels - if you click with someone on 6 of them, they’re going to be found wanting on the other 4. And what they’re wanting is going to be very different from what you’re wanting.
As time goes by, those un-clicked levels are going to gnaw away at your happiness until there’s a hole big enough to drive a lawyer through.
To my mind, being ‘settled’ at this stage would be akin to having one Wellington boot stuck in the mud while the foot with the tango shoe on it thrashes the air helplessly trying to dance.
* * * * *
The fact that I write about my sex life seems to be an open invitation to some men to grope me indiscriminately just because they feel like it. They also assume that because they want me (or possibly anyone) ‘me’ must automatically want them back. Having invited a lady out, they should not expect that lady to invite them in. And when they’re let down – gently but firmly - yet still persist in being lascivious, that’s just downright arrogant, ignorant and rude.
I am, however, prepared to keep an open mind and as an antidote to my forays into toyboy territory, I help to run a Singles Social Group for people aged 50-70. On Sunday we visited a stately home for a guided tour and afternoon tea.
In one of the grand salons where Countess Lavinia Gimemore-Goldleif once entertained The Grand Duke Harry und Gedemoff, there were some chairs. Two of the male members sat down and promptly fell asleep. Older men, eh? I rest my case.
So as far as long-term relationships go, it ain’t happening at the moment. And so I shall continue to amble through the maze without finding the way out. Because I enjoy the Wabi-Sabi - and let’s face it: a long-term, settled, committed relationship wouldn’t half interfere with my social life.
Having given what some may say were 'the best years of my life’ to marriage (all through my 20s and all through my 30s) plus a further 7 years from 49 to 56 to long-term, settled, committed relationships only to have them not work out, I now know what suits me and what doesn't:
Wabi-Sabi: a Japanese expression meaning The Beauty of Impermanence.
The trouble with the merging of men and women is that we both want different things. On the basis of there being, say, 10 levels - if you click with someone on 6 of them, they’re going to be found wanting on the other 4. And what they’re wanting is going to be very different from what you’re wanting.
As time goes by, those un-clicked levels are going to gnaw away at your happiness until there’s a hole big enough to drive a lawyer through.
To my mind, being ‘settled’ at this stage would be akin to having one Wellington boot stuck in the mud while the foot with the tango shoe on it thrashes the air helplessly trying to dance.
* * * * *
The fact that I write about my sex life seems to be an open invitation to some men to grope me indiscriminately just because they feel like it. They also assume that because they want me (or possibly anyone) ‘me’ must automatically want them back. Having invited a lady out, they should not expect that lady to invite them in. And when they’re let down – gently but firmly - yet still persist in being lascivious, that’s just downright arrogant, ignorant and rude.
I am, however, prepared to keep an open mind and as an antidote to my forays into toyboy territory, I help to run a Singles Social Group for people aged 50-70. On Sunday we visited a stately home for a guided tour and afternoon tea.
In one of the grand salons where Countess Lavinia Gimemore-Goldleif once entertained The Grand Duke Harry und Gedemoff, there were some chairs. Two of the male members sat down and promptly fell asleep. Older men, eh? I rest my case.
So as far as long-term relationships go, it ain’t happening at the moment. And so I shall continue to amble through the maze without finding the way out. Because I enjoy the Wabi-Sabi - and let’s face it: a long-term, settled, committed relationship wouldn’t half interfere with my social life.
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
TALKING TURKEY
I came back late last night from a long weekend in Istanbul. OHMIGOD! The men! They're all insane! But I loved it!
I’ve had a chat up line or two thrown in my direction in the past few years but none as inventive, exotic and amusing as those dished out by the Turks!
Any ladies feeling neglected in the fawning department should head straight to the airport. Don’t bother to pack – you can shop till you flop right there.
The first point in the Turkish men’s favour is that 50% of them are gorgeous: tan-skinned, black-haired, pistachio green-eyed, three-day stubbled, in short . . . drool-worthy. And if you glance admiringly in their direction, you’ll get it back in spades.
The second point (perhaps not in their favour) is that they’re the biggest shmoozers in history. All I wanted to do was browse the Grand Bazaar but I nearly ended up with a third husband!
Before you’ve had a chance to take in the stock of jewels, handbags, leathers, souvenirs, pashminas, spices and furs, the merchant salesmen have lured you into their caves with a:
“Vel-cum, beautiful lady! Vel-cum! Today is my birthday! You help me celebrate or you break my heart!” Oh! OK then. . . if you put it like that . . .
A small boy appears through the labyrinth swinging a silver tray on which balance various glasses of fruit tea: apple, sour cherry, pomegranate, melon – very tasty. Of course, you neither want nor need a glass of tea, but it’s all part of the shopping experience.
As the banter goes on, your head is turned, your blood starts to pump, a surge of adrenaline fuels the fire as a thousand and one designer handbags dance before your eyes. Try as you might, you find yourself unable to resist the vendor’s leathery clutches.
“Your body is perfect. . . like a Coca-Cola bottle!”
“You look so delicious, I want to eat you in a sandwich. . .”
“Look into my eyes, I will change your life . . .”
British Men: LISTEN AND LEARN!
Now I’ve never had myself down as naïve or impressionable – not with my great age and experience – but by the end of the trip I’d fallen in love - not once, not twice, but three times in as many days! So much so that I actually began to empathise with those foolish English women who set off somewhere hot, and within hours of arriving want to stay forever because they fancy themselves enamoured with the first man who flatters them.
And you can understand why: there’s something utterly seductive about a place where the air smells sweet, the nights are balmy and the moon hangs, laconic and lemony, in the dark night sky.
Add to this a sip of raki, the whisper of promise from those full and faithless lips, the brush of a dark-skinned hand against your hair, the adoring gaze of a pair of long-lashed eyes and what woman wouldn’t find herself hooked?
OK. I'm not shtoopid. I know what they’re after: the same thing men all over the world are after, no matter their colour, creed or climate, but what a wondrous web they weave in their efforts to ensnare you!
No: “Get yer coat, darlin’, you’ve pulled!” or “Brace yerself, Sheila!” for the likes of them. It’s all about ‘your beautiful eyes, your wonderful smile, the scent of your skin, the shape of your mouth’ – keep talking, baby, just Keep. On. Talking. . . even if it is a load of old (Istan) bull!
My first visit to the Grand Bazaar produced one fabulous handbag, a chinchilla-trimmed leather jacket and a date with Josof. The second visit delivered an amethyst necklace, presents for the family and an invitation from Ferro, the quintessential tall, dark, handsome Turkish toyboy. Within hours of meeting, we were snogging on his sofa. Yup! They sure move fast.
The nightly trips to the Tea Garden to smoke shisha pipes and get leered at by anything in trousers offered up Murat, Hasan and Ozäy all very keen to take our relationship to a higher – or was it lower? – plane. In fact the one we nicknamed Ali Baba who started with the usual: “Verr arr you from?” immediately followed this up with: “I have very good feeling about us!” Us? Really? What was your name again?
He did manage to sprat my mobile number though by dictating me his, asking me to dial it to check I had it right and presto! he had mine. Duh!
So now Josof and I are meeting in Rome in November and Ferro is coming to London as soon as he gets a visa and we’re taking the Eurostar to Paris!
I’m very hopeful these two events will come to pass. Why wouldn’t they? These are genuine guys after all, about as genuine as all those Gucci, Fendi, Hermès and Vuitton handbags!
But you know something? I don’t care. You don’t have to go to the party, but boy, it’s nice to be invited! And my long weekend in Istanbul was the most ego-boosting, life-affirming, femininity-flattering experience I’ve had in a very long time.
I’ve had a chat up line or two thrown in my direction in the past few years but none as inventive, exotic and amusing as those dished out by the Turks!
Any ladies feeling neglected in the fawning department should head straight to the airport. Don’t bother to pack – you can shop till you flop right there.
The first point in the Turkish men’s favour is that 50% of them are gorgeous: tan-skinned, black-haired, pistachio green-eyed, three-day stubbled, in short . . . drool-worthy. And if you glance admiringly in their direction, you’ll get it back in spades.
The second point (perhaps not in their favour) is that they’re the biggest shmoozers in history. All I wanted to do was browse the Grand Bazaar but I nearly ended up with a third husband!
Before you’ve had a chance to take in the stock of jewels, handbags, leathers, souvenirs, pashminas, spices and furs, the merchant salesmen have lured you into their caves with a:
“Vel-cum, beautiful lady! Vel-cum! Today is my birthday! You help me celebrate or you break my heart!” Oh! OK then. . . if you put it like that . . .
A small boy appears through the labyrinth swinging a silver tray on which balance various glasses of fruit tea: apple, sour cherry, pomegranate, melon – very tasty. Of course, you neither want nor need a glass of tea, but it’s all part of the shopping experience.
As the banter goes on, your head is turned, your blood starts to pump, a surge of adrenaline fuels the fire as a thousand and one designer handbags dance before your eyes. Try as you might, you find yourself unable to resist the vendor’s leathery clutches.
“Your body is perfect. . . like a Coca-Cola bottle!”
“You look so delicious, I want to eat you in a sandwich. . .”
“Look into my eyes, I will change your life . . .”
British Men: LISTEN AND LEARN!
Now I’ve never had myself down as naïve or impressionable – not with my great age and experience – but by the end of the trip I’d fallen in love - not once, not twice, but three times in as many days! So much so that I actually began to empathise with those foolish English women who set off somewhere hot, and within hours of arriving want to stay forever because they fancy themselves enamoured with the first man who flatters them.
And you can understand why: there’s something utterly seductive about a place where the air smells sweet, the nights are balmy and the moon hangs, laconic and lemony, in the dark night sky.
Add to this a sip of raki, the whisper of promise from those full and faithless lips, the brush of a dark-skinned hand against your hair, the adoring gaze of a pair of long-lashed eyes and what woman wouldn’t find herself hooked?
OK. I'm not shtoopid. I know what they’re after: the same thing men all over the world are after, no matter their colour, creed or climate, but what a wondrous web they weave in their efforts to ensnare you!
No: “Get yer coat, darlin’, you’ve pulled!” or “Brace yerself, Sheila!” for the likes of them. It’s all about ‘your beautiful eyes, your wonderful smile, the scent of your skin, the shape of your mouth’ – keep talking, baby, just Keep. On. Talking. . . even if it is a load of old (Istan) bull!
My first visit to the Grand Bazaar produced one fabulous handbag, a chinchilla-trimmed leather jacket and a date with Josof. The second visit delivered an amethyst necklace, presents for the family and an invitation from Ferro, the quintessential tall, dark, handsome Turkish toyboy. Within hours of meeting, we were snogging on his sofa. Yup! They sure move fast.
The nightly trips to the Tea Garden to smoke shisha pipes and get leered at by anything in trousers offered up Murat, Hasan and Ozäy all very keen to take our relationship to a higher – or was it lower? – plane. In fact the one we nicknamed Ali Baba who started with the usual: “Verr arr you from?” immediately followed this up with: “I have very good feeling about us!” Us? Really? What was your name again?
He did manage to sprat my mobile number though by dictating me his, asking me to dial it to check I had it right and presto! he had mine. Duh!
So now Josof and I are meeting in Rome in November and Ferro is coming to London as soon as he gets a visa and we’re taking the Eurostar to Paris!
I’m very hopeful these two events will come to pass. Why wouldn’t they? These are genuine guys after all, about as genuine as all those Gucci, Fendi, Hermès and Vuitton handbags!
But you know something? I don’t care. You don’t have to go to the party, but boy, it’s nice to be invited! And my long weekend in Istanbul was the most ego-boosting, life-affirming, femininity-flattering experience I’ve had in a very long time.
Saturday, 19 September 2009
SATURDAY NIGHT...
The nights are drawing in and the pages of the calendar will soon turn from green to gold but there's Strictly! X Factor! Thai Sweet Chilli Flavoured crisps and dips! Sofa! Heaven!
Now that the world's two favourite programmes are back, fighting for ratings and keeping our channel-flipping thumbs happily occupied, there's only one place to be on a Saturday night. Rejoice and celebrate.
Our old friends Brucie, Tess, Simon, Cheryl, Louis and that girl with the wonky nose are back so no need to feel lonely or afraid if you don't have a date. He'd only talk all the way through it or demand to watch the football instead, and some things - like bars of Green & Black's Dark Organic Cherry Chocolate chomped in front of trash TV - are far better enjoyed alone.
The Wedding in Marbella turned out to be a bit chavvy, in case you were wondering. Despite the beautiful setting, with a ceremony on the fringes of a sunset beach, the company left something to be desired (salvaged at the 11th hour by some cool people on my table).
The first person I set eyes on when I arrived was Paul Danan. And I thought this was meant to be a "Celebrity" wedding!! I was also teamed up with the most boring man on the planet but in case he's reading this, I better say: "Oh no I wasn't!" (then you can say: "Oh yes you was!")
I downed a couple of kir royales in quick succession in an attempt to make the other guests look marginally more attractive. I then embarked on a side-splittingly misguided toyboy moment. Unable to accept the fact that amongst a blur of middle-aged faces I was just another one of the same, I attempted to claw back some of my personality by making eyes at the very bloke who'd filled me with dread on arrival: Paul Danan.
I vaguely remember lurching up to him, telling him I was losing the will to live and demanding that he entertain me. How embarrassing was that? More so, because although he rose to the occasion and promised to comply with my instruction, even suggesting we head off down the beach to search for stranded dolphins, he swiftly disappeared into the crowd never to be seen again!
The expression: No Fool Like An Old Fool was obviously invented for a reason. Shame that night the reason was me!
On returning from sunnier climes, I found a proper old-fashioned letter amid my post. You don't get many of them to the pound nowadays. It had been forwarded by my publishers and contained a 5-page hand-written missive from a man I did not know, whose address began 'H M Prison...'
I'll tell you all about it next time...
Now that the world's two favourite programmes are back, fighting for ratings and keeping our channel-flipping thumbs happily occupied, there's only one place to be on a Saturday night. Rejoice and celebrate.
Our old friends Brucie, Tess, Simon, Cheryl, Louis and that girl with the wonky nose are back so no need to feel lonely or afraid if you don't have a date. He'd only talk all the way through it or demand to watch the football instead, and some things - like bars of Green & Black's Dark Organic Cherry Chocolate chomped in front of trash TV - are far better enjoyed alone.
The Wedding in Marbella turned out to be a bit chavvy, in case you were wondering. Despite the beautiful setting, with a ceremony on the fringes of a sunset beach, the company left something to be desired (salvaged at the 11th hour by some cool people on my table).
The first person I set eyes on when I arrived was Paul Danan. And I thought this was meant to be a "Celebrity" wedding!! I was also teamed up with the most boring man on the planet but in case he's reading this, I better say: "Oh no I wasn't!" (then you can say: "Oh yes you was!")
I downed a couple of kir royales in quick succession in an attempt to make the other guests look marginally more attractive. I then embarked on a side-splittingly misguided toyboy moment. Unable to accept the fact that amongst a blur of middle-aged faces I was just another one of the same, I attempted to claw back some of my personality by making eyes at the very bloke who'd filled me with dread on arrival: Paul Danan.
I vaguely remember lurching up to him, telling him I was losing the will to live and demanding that he entertain me. How embarrassing was that? More so, because although he rose to the occasion and promised to comply with my instruction, even suggesting we head off down the beach to search for stranded dolphins, he swiftly disappeared into the crowd never to be seen again!
The expression: No Fool Like An Old Fool was obviously invented for a reason. Shame that night the reason was me!
On returning from sunnier climes, I found a proper old-fashioned letter amid my post. You don't get many of them to the pound nowadays. It had been forwarded by my publishers and contained a 5-page hand-written missive from a man I did not know, whose address began 'H M Prison...'
I'll tell you all about it next time...
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