Thursday. I resist texting MLP but by 1 p.m. I lose the fight:
‘Be good to feel your arms around me and my legs around you again soon’.
I don’t hear back from him at all. What a slap in the face that is! Not all day and not all night so I text Finn again because I’m feeling lonely and abandoned.
He replies very keenly and after a few soul-searching seconds (that’s as long as it takes me to search my soul) I invite him over. The minute I’ve done it, I regret it so I rescind the invitation thereby driving the poor boy nuts.
At 11.45 p.m. Arrogant Rugby Player texts me from his chalet in the Alps to tell me his thighs are burning from a hard day’s ski-ing. Like I giveashit.
This is the first full day since MLP and I met that we have not had contact. He does have a propensity to leave his mobile phone in odd places, and I console myself with that thought. Also the fact that he could have lost it or had it stolen or emigrated to Tanzania without bothering to tell me.
I also remember that he is often out of credit and this affords me some modecum of comfort.
Friday. I wake up drowning in a well of loneliness. I wish I wasn’t so needy – for company, love, approbation, admiration. I need to work harder on making myself whole and strong on my own. All I want is someone to want me...It hardly seems to matter who any more...
If I don’t hear from MLP today, I shall...WHAT?
In a flash of inspiration, I 141 his mobile and it rings and rings before going to voice mail. Had he answered, that would have meant he was available to text or phone me and I would have wanted to know: Why hasn’t he?
I go about my busy day which ends with a deafening silence. Questions career around my head:
Where the fuck is he?
Should I phone him?
Is that ever a good idea?
Shouldn’t women always play hard to get?
Will I be damned if I do and damned if I don’t?
Why is this part always so terribly hard?
Answers on the Comments link PLEASE!
Thursday, 30 August 2007
Monday, 27 August 2007
THE DAILY MALE - continues...
I go to a friend’s to play Scrabble and he texts me again at 11.30 to say ‘Goodnight baby. Have a good sleep xx’ and I’m on cloud 69 again.
Tuesday. Have a good productive work day, and forge ahead with my new book on future collectibles. I also make up a new homily:
A man should be an accessory in your life. Not your entire wardrobe.
I tell myself I won’t hear from him today and I don’t but I cope with it. He texts me at 10.45 p.m. to say that he misses ‘my company and my laidyness’. I go to bed happier...it doesn't take much!
I text the Rugby Player who’s in Verbier just to keep the wheels oiled.
Wednesday. What a turn-up for the books! I get a text from Finn, a 25 yr-old New Zealander I met on the internet last summer with whom I had a brief fling. It ended badly after three dates, with him sort of asking me for money, although I was never really clear whether he just wanted the cab fare home or some sort of financial handout. Some people think toyboy = gigolo but this is not so, and I am not, nor ever have been, a Sugar Mummy. Sweet? Yes. A mother? Also... but it ends there!
It did make me question whether I would ever consider paying for it though, and I came to the conclusion that everybody pays for everything eventually...one way or another...
‘Hi W, I have been back in NZ for 3 months. I know I was a complete ass last time but would you like to meet up again? We had something that blew my mind. Truth is you were the hottest woman I ever had – a real catch…Sorry I was rude…I would love to see you again.’
I am tempted to revisit the situation but mull over the effect this may have on my conscience. (Yes... believe it or not, I do have one!) I text him back haughtily, telling him I’m currently 'involved with someone'. I don’t mention that that someone needs to haul his cute, little ass up my stairs PDQ or I may call in my first reserve, whomever that may be.
I get stick from my girlfriends about even conversing with Finn again. They remind me how upset I was by his behaviour back then and I remember with a twist of torment that he’d committed the cardinal sin of making me feel old.
Tuesday. Have a good productive work day, and forge ahead with my new book on future collectibles. I also make up a new homily:
A man should be an accessory in your life. Not your entire wardrobe.
I tell myself I won’t hear from him today and I don’t but I cope with it. He texts me at 10.45 p.m. to say that he misses ‘my company and my laidyness’. I go to bed happier...it doesn't take much!
I text the Rugby Player who’s in Verbier just to keep the wheels oiled.
Wednesday. What a turn-up for the books! I get a text from Finn, a 25 yr-old New Zealander I met on the internet last summer with whom I had a brief fling. It ended badly after three dates, with him sort of asking me for money, although I was never really clear whether he just wanted the cab fare home or some sort of financial handout. Some people think toyboy = gigolo but this is not so, and I am not, nor ever have been, a Sugar Mummy. Sweet? Yes. A mother? Also... but it ends there!
It did make me question whether I would ever consider paying for it though, and I came to the conclusion that everybody pays for everything eventually...one way or another...
‘Hi W, I have been back in NZ for 3 months. I know I was a complete ass last time but would you like to meet up again? We had something that blew my mind. Truth is you were the hottest woman I ever had – a real catch…Sorry I was rude…I would love to see you again.’
I am tempted to revisit the situation but mull over the effect this may have on my conscience. (Yes... believe it or not, I do have one!) I text him back haughtily, telling him I’m currently 'involved with someone'. I don’t mention that that someone needs to haul his cute, little ass up my stairs PDQ or I may call in my first reserve, whomever that may be.
I get stick from my girlfriends about even conversing with Finn again. They remind me how upset I was by his behaviour back then and I remember with a twist of torment that he’d committed the cardinal sin of making me feel old.
Monday, 20 August 2007
THE DAILY MALE - continues...
The text is (only) from my sister in Spain and then I notice a missed call from him!!! I call him straight back and have a most unsatisfactory conversation in which I become hostile and aggressive, demanding he come round and pick up his clothes from 'all over my flat'.
I have no idea why I say this. It's like I've developed nostalgic PMT or something. I then soften my tone and try to backtrack which fails to work for either of us. I then go silent during which he asks ‘You OK babe?’ twice and I answer something that sounds like: Yea but no but yea but no but…
It is clear to me that being a stupid woman never quite evolves beyond being a stupid woman. No wonder men don’t understand us.
MLP chats on regardless informing me that:
a) he stayed at his cousin’s last night and didn’t go to the karaoke party after all
b) when he went home this morning, he left his mobile at said cousin’s so did not get my earlier text and
c) Big Exciting News: he’s hoping to get tickets to the Millennium Stadium next Saturday for the Arsenal/Chelsea Coca Cola Cup Final.
That’s Next Saturday in fucking Cardiff. That’s in CARDIFF NEXT SATURDAY!! Are you receiving the same message I got?
I come off the phone in a black depression, and call to whinge a bit more to a different girlfriend. She reminds me that apart from being a 28-year old, he is only a man, and that she thought I was going to ‘enjoy it for what it is’. I wonder why I am unable to learn anything from past experiences and then break all the rules by texting him again.
‘Our conversation has left me sad. Have we lost something? We’ve had such a lovely time so far and I want that to continue but I need your reassurance that you want that too’.
Desperate, Needy, Pathetic, Paranoid Barbie? Tick all these boxes.
He takes about an hour to reply which is not exactly reassuring:
‘No worrys babe. Nothings gone anywhre. Just got to keep on track and need some space, then things can run a lot smoothly. I’ll be down soon as I can get away’ like he lives in the bloody Hebrides or somewhere.
The only words I see are ‘need some space’. Don’t people say that when they want to finish with you?
I have no idea why I say this. It's like I've developed nostalgic PMT or something. I then soften my tone and try to backtrack which fails to work for either of us. I then go silent during which he asks ‘You OK babe?’ twice and I answer something that sounds like: Yea but no but yea but no but…
It is clear to me that being a stupid woman never quite evolves beyond being a stupid woman. No wonder men don’t understand us.
MLP chats on regardless informing me that:
a) he stayed at his cousin’s last night and didn’t go to the karaoke party after all
b) when he went home this morning, he left his mobile at said cousin’s so did not get my earlier text and
c) Big Exciting News: he’s hoping to get tickets to the Millennium Stadium next Saturday for the Arsenal/Chelsea Coca Cola Cup Final.
That’s Next Saturday in fucking Cardiff. That’s in CARDIFF NEXT SATURDAY!! Are you receiving the same message I got?
I come off the phone in a black depression, and call to whinge a bit more to a different girlfriend. She reminds me that apart from being a 28-year old, he is only a man, and that she thought I was going to ‘enjoy it for what it is’. I wonder why I am unable to learn anything from past experiences and then break all the rules by texting him again.
‘Our conversation has left me sad. Have we lost something? We’ve had such a lovely time so far and I want that to continue but I need your reassurance that you want that too’.
Desperate, Needy, Pathetic, Paranoid Barbie? Tick all these boxes.
He takes about an hour to reply which is not exactly reassuring:
‘No worrys babe. Nothings gone anywhre. Just got to keep on track and need some space, then things can run a lot smoothly. I’ll be down soon as I can get away’ like he lives in the bloody Hebrides or somewhere.
The only words I see are ‘need some space’. Don’t people say that when they want to finish with you?
Wednesday, 15 August 2007
THE DAILY MALE - continues...
There is no news from him for the rest of the day until 9.40 p.m. when I’m in the cinema with a girlfriend. My phone, which I've stuck under my coat between my legs, begins to vibrate thus causing me to leap out of my seat and grope around for it like a demented onanist.
‘Hi babe. I’m staing hear tonight. How was your day x?’
Well fuck you with a big fat cactus, you rotten bastard! And learn how to fucking spell! I slam my phone shut, and stuff it back under my coat disturbing the people next to me. I fold my arms in a churlish grump muttering:
‘Fine. See if I care. Have a great time with your stupid friends, you useless wanker’.
Don’t let anyone ever tell you that with age comes dignity and understanding.
My girlfriend is deeply ensconced in the film and oblivious to my volatile behaviour. When I calm down, I realise I’ve completely lost the plot. Of my life and that of the film. Twenty five minutes later, the phone vibrates again. The same excited groping in the crotch area takes place. Certain that he’s changed his mind, I’m ready to emergency exit the cinema and rush home.
‘Hope your not cross with me hun. Will speak tomorrow xxx’
Cross? Cross?? I’m hyperventilating with disappointed but he's not to know that, so I text back:
‘It’s cool. Am at movies. Have a fun one x’.
I go home, watch TV until 1.30 a.m. and in spite of it all, fall sleep in blissful, selfish, starfish silence certain I’ll hear from him early next day.
Sunday 16.40 p.m. Well I don’t know if he’s called you but he certainly hasn’t called me. Determined to retain a semblance of cool unavailability and force him into making desperate, angst-ridden contact, I busy myself throughout the morning.
Trouble is with the female multi-tasking gene in permanent play, we can build an Ark, collect the animals, and set sail for Mount Ararat whilst still managing to obsess 24/7. At 1 p.m. I give up the fight and text him – chatty, friendly, ending with a question.
He doesn’t reply within the requisite twenty-two minutes so I go to the supermarket and roam around the aisles aimlessly, picking things up and putting them down again, eventually abandoning the trolley half full and walking out with my cup half empty.
The phone is cemented to my arse on vibrate in my back pocket. It fails to go off despite my checking it every seven seconds. I go home and call a girlfriend to have a mammoth whingeing session. She listens attentively then tells me to get a grip.
I put my phone on to charge in the bedroom and sit down to watch the EastEnders Omnibus in the living-room thereby missing his call. When I eventually hear my text go off, I hare down the corridor like a runaway train almost smashing into the glass door on my mirrored cupboard.
Do I really need another seven years bad luck?
‘Hi babe. I’m staing hear tonight. How was your day x?’
Well fuck you with a big fat cactus, you rotten bastard! And learn how to fucking spell! I slam my phone shut, and stuff it back under my coat disturbing the people next to me. I fold my arms in a churlish grump muttering:
‘Fine. See if I care. Have a great time with your stupid friends, you useless wanker’.
Don’t let anyone ever tell you that with age comes dignity and understanding.
My girlfriend is deeply ensconced in the film and oblivious to my volatile behaviour. When I calm down, I realise I’ve completely lost the plot. Of my life and that of the film. Twenty five minutes later, the phone vibrates again. The same excited groping in the crotch area takes place. Certain that he’s changed his mind, I’m ready to emergency exit the cinema and rush home.
‘Hope your not cross with me hun. Will speak tomorrow xxx’
Cross? Cross?? I’m hyperventilating with disappointed but he's not to know that, so I text back:
‘It’s cool. Am at movies. Have a fun one x’.
I go home, watch TV until 1.30 a.m. and in spite of it all, fall sleep in blissful, selfish, starfish silence certain I’ll hear from him early next day.
Sunday 16.40 p.m. Well I don’t know if he’s called you but he certainly hasn’t called me. Determined to retain a semblance of cool unavailability and force him into making desperate, angst-ridden contact, I busy myself throughout the morning.
Trouble is with the female multi-tasking gene in permanent play, we can build an Ark, collect the animals, and set sail for Mount Ararat whilst still managing to obsess 24/7. At 1 p.m. I give up the fight and text him – chatty, friendly, ending with a question.
He doesn’t reply within the requisite twenty-two minutes so I go to the supermarket and roam around the aisles aimlessly, picking things up and putting them down again, eventually abandoning the trolley half full and walking out with my cup half empty.
The phone is cemented to my arse on vibrate in my back pocket. It fails to go off despite my checking it every seven seconds. I go home and call a girlfriend to have a mammoth whingeing session. She listens attentively then tells me to get a grip.
I put my phone on to charge in the bedroom and sit down to watch the EastEnders Omnibus in the living-room thereby missing his call. When I eventually hear my text go off, I hare down the corridor like a runaway train almost smashing into the glass door on my mirrored cupboard.
Do I really need another seven years bad luck?
Saturday, 11 August 2007
THE DAILY MALE - continues...
In the evening I pack MLP off home with a food parcel, as I have a cocktail party to go to at The Bolivian Embassy. A good-looking suit is standing in the street outside holding a glass of wine and having a furtive fag. He sizes me up as I approach, I enquire if I'm in the right place, and we start to chat. He hands me his business card which boasts an unpronounceable Hungarian name with a title in front of it. I reciprocate with mine (card, that is, not title) although tonight I feel like Countess Barbie.
I enter the elegant drawing room on the first floor of the grand stucco Belgravia house, and go in search of my hosts. I network a little, making acquaintances out of strangers, swiping canapés off passing trays and necking Bolivian plonk. Baron Czykzyncsky von Eurolech appears through the throng undressing me with his eyes, and subliminally slamming me up against the wall without buying me dinner first.
My friends and I go to Mimmo’s afterwards, where I am introduced to the elderly but amusing Sir John O’Groats who invites me to be his squeeze at the Berkeley Square Ball. I accept graciously so as not to have to fork out the £150, but squeeze me he shan't...
Thursday. My Little Ponytail is forever on my mind and although we have yet to confirm the weekend, I presume we will be spending it together. I am horrified to learn, therefore, that he has a ‘karioke’ party to go to on Saturday night to which I am clearly not invited.
I go into a tremendous inner strop while trying to appear cool and unbovvered. It’s absolutely fine for me to have other arrangements which he must obviously work around, but it’s ABSOLUTELY FORBIDDEN for him to!!
After a protracted period of sulking, I shape up and revert to whatever is normal between a 28-year old and me.
That evening, adopting the mantle of Pathetic Barbie, I text him ‘If I don’t see you on Saturday, when will I see you then?’ hating myself even as the words are leaving my thumb.
He answers that if it’s OK with me, he will come over late Saturday after the party. Yay! I feel like I’ve just won the lottery.
Friday. I spend the evening lovingly pressing two of MLP’s shirts which he’s left behind in my flat. The mother/lover/doormat gene is alive and well and doing the ironing in front of the tele. We text a bit and I feel secure. Because of my seniority, I’m never quite sure whether he expects me to make the running. I still like the man to be the man and chase a little, but sometimes you have to chase them until they catch you.
Saturday. He calls me briefly on his way to footie but he doesn’t mention seeing me later or the following day. Hallo!! It’s the weekend in case you hadn’t noticed!! I quash the surging desire to ask him what the fuck he thinks he’s playing at...
I enter the elegant drawing room on the first floor of the grand stucco Belgravia house, and go in search of my hosts. I network a little, making acquaintances out of strangers, swiping canapés off passing trays and necking Bolivian plonk. Baron Czykzyncsky von Eurolech appears through the throng undressing me with his eyes, and subliminally slamming me up against the wall without buying me dinner first.
My friends and I go to Mimmo’s afterwards, where I am introduced to the elderly but amusing Sir John O’Groats who invites me to be his squeeze at the Berkeley Square Ball. I accept graciously so as not to have to fork out the £150, but squeeze me he shan't...
Thursday. My Little Ponytail is forever on my mind and although we have yet to confirm the weekend, I presume we will be spending it together. I am horrified to learn, therefore, that he has a ‘karioke’ party to go to on Saturday night to which I am clearly not invited.
I go into a tremendous inner strop while trying to appear cool and unbovvered. It’s absolutely fine for me to have other arrangements which he must obviously work around, but it’s ABSOLUTELY FORBIDDEN for him to!!
After a protracted period of sulking, I shape up and revert to whatever is normal between a 28-year old and me.
That evening, adopting the mantle of Pathetic Barbie, I text him ‘If I don’t see you on Saturday, when will I see you then?’ hating myself even as the words are leaving my thumb.
He answers that if it’s OK with me, he will come over late Saturday after the party. Yay! I feel like I’ve just won the lottery.
Friday. I spend the evening lovingly pressing two of MLP’s shirts which he’s left behind in my flat. The mother/lover/doormat gene is alive and well and doing the ironing in front of the tele. We text a bit and I feel secure. Because of my seniority, I’m never quite sure whether he expects me to make the running. I still like the man to be the man and chase a little, but sometimes you have to chase them until they catch you.
Saturday. He calls me briefly on his way to footie but he doesn’t mention seeing me later or the following day. Hallo!! It’s the weekend in case you hadn’t noticed!! I quash the surging desire to ask him what the fuck he thinks he’s playing at...
Tuesday, 7 August 2007
CONTEMPORANEOUS v. RETROSPECTIVE?
Just a little disclaimer for the footie buffs among you to say that I know that you know that this blog is not totally contemporaneous.
If a story's good, I think it's worth relating retrospectively, don't you?
Please don't be upset that the football references don't match the time of year. Trust me...I know what I'm doing...(she said confidently!)
If a story's good, I think it's worth relating retrospectively, don't you?
Please don't be upset that the football references don't match the time of year. Trust me...I know what I'm doing...(she said confidently!)
Monday, 6 August 2007
THE DAILY MALE - continues...
For our next date, MLP arrives on my doorstep in an immaculately-pressed check shirt which he fills across the shoulders to perfection. His muscular thighs are straining the denim of his tight blue jeans. I can hardly see him behind a bouquet of the most exquisite, deep red velvet roses all wrapped up in cellophane with a huge red bow. His cute and happy face swells my heart to the size of a watermelon and his utter gorgeousness is Eye Candy Central. He hands me a huge box of Thornton’s Premium Collection Chocolates. Barbie’s cup runneth over.
In return I hand him an ice cold bottle of Lanson champagne with the Liqueur de Cassis and he pours us two kir royales. We toast the occasion and I send him to the sofa while I finish in the kitchen. When the meal is ready, I call him in for his first taste of caviar. He bites into the cracker trepidantly then gobs it out like Tom Hanks in Big, scraping the world's most expensive snack off his tongue with his fingers whilst gagging into the sink. I would have found this pathetically unsophisticated coming from anyone else but from him, it is sweetly honest and innocently endearing.
I screw the jar back up, return it to the fridge and quickly rethink the first course. I throw together a warm goat’s cheese salad, followed by chicken soup like my Bubba used to make because he’s had a chest infection all week. My Boeuf Stroganoff with green beans goes down a treat as does the fresh raspberry jelly prepared in my heart-shaped jelly mould. I manage to turn this neatly out onto a plate without it hitting the deck.
We spoon it into each other’s mouths with copious amounts of Double Thick Clotted Cream and this idyllic evening of romance and passion is marred only by the fact that Arsenal are playing Bolton in the FA Cup Fourth Round and this match obviously has to be watched out of the corner of one eye whilst attempting to give me his (less than) full attention with the other.
We repair to the living-room as Bolton equalizes in the 90th minute which provokes an extra half hour of play. I resign myself to the fact that as we have been going out for over a month now, the gloss is already off, and boys with be boys. He’ll owe me later and I shall collect...
Halfway through the night, marvelling at the fact that he’s not snoring for once, I stretch out a leg to make contact. I can't find him. I strain to listen for his breathing, realise I can’t hear a thing, and pat the mattress vigorously all over only to find that he has gone. I panic, look on the floor on his side in case he’s fallen out, leap out of bed, check the ensuite then search the rest of my flat.
I find him asleep on the couch wrapped in a bath towel. His breathing is laboured and chesty and I presume he hadn’t wanted to disturb me - poor little chap. I go back to bed feeling guilty, wondering if I should cover him with a spare duvet as it will get cold towards dawn. I fall back to sleep before putting this act of mercy into practice. The atmosphere in the morning is a bit strained but we get over it.
As he is not working today, he hangs around with me, having nothing to go home for. I am therefore obliged to take him with me on a series of business appointments, and it feels like having a child on half-term and no-one to leave them with. He does the driving which helps somewhat. We run across Knightsbridge hand in hand as I have a meeting with the buyer in the Cigar Department at Harrods. He confesses to this being first visit to the venerable store and then snogs me on the escalator, which tickles me pink but couldn’t be less appropriate. I’ve been a supplier to Harrods for many years and I know a lot of the staff. What this may do to my cred if I’m seen can only be guessed at.
We get home at 4.15 and I end my working day early to make us tea and crumpets. I spoon into him on the couch and he enters me from behind in full view of Richard & Judy...
In return I hand him an ice cold bottle of Lanson champagne with the Liqueur de Cassis and he pours us two kir royales. We toast the occasion and I send him to the sofa while I finish in the kitchen. When the meal is ready, I call him in for his first taste of caviar. He bites into the cracker trepidantly then gobs it out like Tom Hanks in Big, scraping the world's most expensive snack off his tongue with his fingers whilst gagging into the sink. I would have found this pathetically unsophisticated coming from anyone else but from him, it is sweetly honest and innocently endearing.
I screw the jar back up, return it to the fridge and quickly rethink the first course. I throw together a warm goat’s cheese salad, followed by chicken soup like my Bubba used to make because he’s had a chest infection all week. My Boeuf Stroganoff with green beans goes down a treat as does the fresh raspberry jelly prepared in my heart-shaped jelly mould. I manage to turn this neatly out onto a plate without it hitting the deck.
We spoon it into each other’s mouths with copious amounts of Double Thick Clotted Cream and this idyllic evening of romance and passion is marred only by the fact that Arsenal are playing Bolton in the FA Cup Fourth Round and this match obviously has to be watched out of the corner of one eye whilst attempting to give me his (less than) full attention with the other.
We repair to the living-room as Bolton equalizes in the 90th minute which provokes an extra half hour of play. I resign myself to the fact that as we have been going out for over a month now, the gloss is already off, and boys with be boys. He’ll owe me later and I shall collect...
Halfway through the night, marvelling at the fact that he’s not snoring for once, I stretch out a leg to make contact. I can't find him. I strain to listen for his breathing, realise I can’t hear a thing, and pat the mattress vigorously all over only to find that he has gone. I panic, look on the floor on his side in case he’s fallen out, leap out of bed, check the ensuite then search the rest of my flat.
I find him asleep on the couch wrapped in a bath towel. His breathing is laboured and chesty and I presume he hadn’t wanted to disturb me - poor little chap. I go back to bed feeling guilty, wondering if I should cover him with a spare duvet as it will get cold towards dawn. I fall back to sleep before putting this act of mercy into practice. The atmosphere in the morning is a bit strained but we get over it.
As he is not working today, he hangs around with me, having nothing to go home for. I am therefore obliged to take him with me on a series of business appointments, and it feels like having a child on half-term and no-one to leave them with. He does the driving which helps somewhat. We run across Knightsbridge hand in hand as I have a meeting with the buyer in the Cigar Department at Harrods. He confesses to this being first visit to the venerable store and then snogs me on the escalator, which tickles me pink but couldn’t be less appropriate. I’ve been a supplier to Harrods for many years and I know a lot of the staff. What this may do to my cred if I’m seen can only be guessed at.
We get home at 4.15 and I end my working day early to make us tea and crumpets. I spoon into him on the couch and he enters me from behind in full view of Richard & Judy...
Sunday, 5 August 2007
SUMMER HORRIDAYS...
I don't intend to bore you with the finer points of what it's like looking after a mother whose brain is still sharp as a razor, but whose legs are not receiving the message to move...
I'm going to start stashing away the sleepers now so that if this ever happens to me, it's gonna be That's All Folks!
Gatwick Delay Man has texted me a few times, but apart from not really having the mind for it, I wasn't free when he was and vice versa. Am I bovvered? Not really...it would have been fun to meet up under the Mediterranean moon, but my filial duties are taking precedence just now.
I do feel like I've been kidnapped from my life and dropped into an Old Age Home but at least that's limited to another 9 days, 3 hours, 27 minutes and 39 seconds - not that I'm counting.
The little flirtette with GDM was nothing more than an affirmation of my continued pullability, so in that context, it did the trick.
Marbella has been my second home since the 1960s when my father, a man of great foresight, bought a 3 bedroom 2 bathroom villa on the beach for £2,200. The town was little more than a fishing village back then. We used to fly to Gibraltar and trondle along the two lane pot-holed coast road, passing clusters of little whitewashed houses which glinted in the noon day sun. That's all gone now, replaced by monolithic tower blocks, urbanizations, golf complexes and grand hotels which clutter up the landscape.
Marbella old town still has its Andalucian charm, however, and if you drive just ten minutes up into the hills, you soon return to the real Spain. The great Moorish cities of Sevilla, Granada and Cordoba are only a couple of hours away so one really has the best of both worlds.
This year, August has been sacrificed as far as I'm concerned; no late night shenanigans at Cafe del Mar, no dining under the stars, or romantic walks along the beach. The highlight will be the bullfight next Saturday which I will not miss at any cost. The eponymous son of El Cordobes is fighting - and his father is his manager.
This is the man who stole my virginity back in 1965 and I haven't seen him since. I may need to have a quiet word, though I'm not sure what that word should be...
'Thanks' probably!
I'll return to The Daily Male next blog. Adios for now.
I'm going to start stashing away the sleepers now so that if this ever happens to me, it's gonna be That's All Folks!
Gatwick Delay Man has texted me a few times, but apart from not really having the mind for it, I wasn't free when he was and vice versa. Am I bovvered? Not really...it would have been fun to meet up under the Mediterranean moon, but my filial duties are taking precedence just now.
I do feel like I've been kidnapped from my life and dropped into an Old Age Home but at least that's limited to another 9 days, 3 hours, 27 minutes and 39 seconds - not that I'm counting.
The little flirtette with GDM was nothing more than an affirmation of my continued pullability, so in that context, it did the trick.
Marbella has been my second home since the 1960s when my father, a man of great foresight, bought a 3 bedroom 2 bathroom villa on the beach for £2,200. The town was little more than a fishing village back then. We used to fly to Gibraltar and trondle along the two lane pot-holed coast road, passing clusters of little whitewashed houses which glinted in the noon day sun. That's all gone now, replaced by monolithic tower blocks, urbanizations, golf complexes and grand hotels which clutter up the landscape.
Marbella old town still has its Andalucian charm, however, and if you drive just ten minutes up into the hills, you soon return to the real Spain. The great Moorish cities of Sevilla, Granada and Cordoba are only a couple of hours away so one really has the best of both worlds.
This year, August has been sacrificed as far as I'm concerned; no late night shenanigans at Cafe del Mar, no dining under the stars, or romantic walks along the beach. The highlight will be the bullfight next Saturday which I will not miss at any cost. The eponymous son of El Cordobes is fighting - and his father is his manager.
This is the man who stole my virginity back in 1965 and I haven't seen him since. I may need to have a quiet word, though I'm not sure what that word should be...
'Thanks' probably!
I'll return to The Daily Male next blog. Adios for now.
Thursday, 2 August 2007
HOLIDAY? I don't think so...
Not wishing to leave you all abandoned while I look after my sick mother in Marbella, I thought I'd regale you with a little traveller's tale.
My flight from Gatwick to Malaga was delayed by four hours. Not a great start but ever the opportunist, I made the most of it. Sitting at the next table in the cafe near the departure gate was a young chap, not handsome as such, but well built and fit - a personal trainer as it turned out. When the announcement of the delay came up on the screen, we caught each other's eyes and threw a look heavenwards. Five minutes later he was sitting at my table pouring me a vodka and tonic. Peasy! You just have to make a connection...
We spent the next three hours deep in conversation during which I told him about The Toyboy Diaries in which he was mightily intrigued. So much so that he dashed the three miles back to the Departure Lounge to pick up a copy from WHSmith which he returned brandishing like a trophy for me to sign for him. I don't know who was more pleased! Me for having made another sale and earned the 60p royalty, or him for having met an author and actually got her to autograph a copy of her oeuvre. Not only that, when he went to pay, the girl at the till commented that she was reading it and loving it! Another fan! Yay!
Eventually we boarded. I was in the sharp end and he was in seat 31D. The plane then sat on the tarmac for a further hour having missed its slot, during which time he texted to invite me to slum it down the back and I thought why not? The last five rows were empty so we spread ourselves out and continued our verbal intercourse.
I never ever drink alcohol on planes for but some reason, I made an exception and by the time we landed, we were like old friends with a promise of being new lovers.
It won't happen. I have in the past allowed Mr. Smirnoff to make important decisions for me but once he's exited my blood stream, good sense and propriety usually prevail. He's just along the coast and we may meet up over the weekend if time and geography allow.
The looking-after-Mother thing is a trial and a tribulation as I don't do Nursie Nursie very well, unless I'm decked out in Ann Summers' little white suspenders and minidress for a very special occasion.
Some light relief would be most welcome, and not beyond the realms of possibility but for now I'm playing The Good Daughter, a role which suits me Not At All.
My first toyboy Ricky (Chapter One) lives up the road and although he's married now, we are still in touch...
I'll keep you posted!
My flight from Gatwick to Malaga was delayed by four hours. Not a great start but ever the opportunist, I made the most of it. Sitting at the next table in the cafe near the departure gate was a young chap, not handsome as such, but well built and fit - a personal trainer as it turned out. When the announcement of the delay came up on the screen, we caught each other's eyes and threw a look heavenwards. Five minutes later he was sitting at my table pouring me a vodka and tonic. Peasy! You just have to make a connection...
We spent the next three hours deep in conversation during which I told him about The Toyboy Diaries in which he was mightily intrigued. So much so that he dashed the three miles back to the Departure Lounge to pick up a copy from WHSmith which he returned brandishing like a trophy for me to sign for him. I don't know who was more pleased! Me for having made another sale and earned the 60p royalty, or him for having met an author and actually got her to autograph a copy of her oeuvre. Not only that, when he went to pay, the girl at the till commented that she was reading it and loving it! Another fan! Yay!
Eventually we boarded. I was in the sharp end and he was in seat 31D. The plane then sat on the tarmac for a further hour having missed its slot, during which time he texted to invite me to slum it down the back and I thought why not? The last five rows were empty so we spread ourselves out and continued our verbal intercourse.
I never ever drink alcohol on planes for but some reason, I made an exception and by the time we landed, we were like old friends with a promise of being new lovers.
It won't happen. I have in the past allowed Mr. Smirnoff to make important decisions for me but once he's exited my blood stream, good sense and propriety usually prevail. He's just along the coast and we may meet up over the weekend if time and geography allow.
The looking-after-Mother thing is a trial and a tribulation as I don't do Nursie Nursie very well, unless I'm decked out in Ann Summers' little white suspenders and minidress for a very special occasion.
Some light relief would be most welcome, and not beyond the realms of possibility but for now I'm playing The Good Daughter, a role which suits me Not At All.
My first toyboy Ricky (Chapter One) lives up the road and although he's married now, we are still in touch...
I'll keep you posted!
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