WENDY SALISBURY

KOLKATA contd....

2012-01-30T02:47:00.001-08:00

I awake from a restless sleep punctuated by men snoring and babies crying. Sitting forward in my seat, I peer out of the window. The horizon is on fire: a dazzling curve of flame sandwiched between the darkness and the dawn. Beneath us, spread out like an old embroidered carpet, lies the Jewel in the Crown of the British Empire: India! At last!

We disembark into the dirtiest airport I’ve ever seen. The once-white marble is grey with grime, the walls splattered and stained, the floors filthy with food and coffee spills. Flying insects buzz about. A moth the size of a sparrow flaps past my face. I duck in terror and beat my hands about my head, suddenly afraid to breathe. What other horrors lurk in this fetid air? Will I catch cholera, typhoid, dengue fever? My first Calcutta cramp heralds a bout of Delhi belly, confirming my stomach’s total disregard for geography.

I exit through immigration into a heaving horde of humanity. An onslaught of sweat and spices assaults my nostrils. Meeters and greeters swell forward straining to find their arrivees. They wave and call out in Hindu and Bengali. Behind them, buses and taxis hoot impatiently as they try to navigate the stragglers who’ve spilled into the road. Goats graze indifferently alongside old men crouching on their haunches against the terminal building chewing betel leaves and smoking bidis.

I peer at the hand-written name cards but none of them bears mine. A mild panic besets me, then there, amongst the mêlée, like an oasis in the desert, stand a regiment of beaming, white-clad drivers bearing boards. The comforting logo of the Oberoi Grand Hotel beckons me like a long-lost lover as my name hoves into view. Take me home, Shankar, I mutter, and allow myself to be guided towards the air-conditioned car.

The journey from the airport is sphincter-clenching. I can’t work out which side of the road they drive on as they appear to use all the lanes at once. Knackered old buses with passengers hanging off the roofs, motorbikes a-wobble with entire families, cyclos, taxis, trams, trucks, tuk-tuks, rickshaws - all hurtle towards each other in a dance of Destination Death.

Road signs advise: Alert Today, Alive Tomorrow and Take Your Time Not Your Life. When my driver goes over his third red light, I ask tremulously: “Isn’t that a bit dangerous?” to which he laughs jovially and replies:

“Oh no, Madame. Red light is only a suggestion.”

As we approach the city centre, a modern monolith or two rises up out of the gutters which house huddles of rag-clad beggars. Beneath a flyover flying nowhere, a market has been set up selling cracked toilet cisterns, sections of old piping, scrap metal, rusty chains.

A dead dog lies in the road, its entrails spilling out, inviting anyone peckish enough to sample its bloody buffet: Come Die With Me.

The driver points proudly to the Victoria Memorial looming out of the early morning mist. Standing in a lush green garden, it bears testament to the long gone Days of the Raj and the supremacy of its ruler, Queen Victoria, Empress of India and all her dominions.

Eventually we arrive at the wrought-iron gates of the Grand Hotel and enter this hallowed enclave which, as the week progresses, becomes a haven of calm and karma from the madness of the street.

KOLKATA - The City That Never Sweeps.

2011-12-12T09:53:00.000-08:00

Calcutta! What sensuous energy does this name evoke? Maharajas riding painted elephants. Tiffin wallahs serving British Officers on colonial club lawns. Dark exotic beauties with jasmine in their hair. . .

Forget all that. It’s called Kolkata now and it’s a drab, decaying bag lady of a place behind whose tragic eyes – if you look hard enough - still burn the dying embers of an old remembered flame.

And yet this savage city is still able to seduce, to draw you in and clutch you against her pounding breast.

At first glance, everything seems hopeless – broken down, bashed up and busted. Great mountains of garbage litter the streets, picked over by dogs, cats, vermin and, pitifully, children. Amidst this detritus, the street people live, families of pavement dwellers who gather beneath flyovers and on sidewalks with nowhere else to go. They’re not ‘homeless’ as we know it – the street is their home.

And yet they live with dignity, rising at dawn from their concrete mattresses to perform the holy ritual of cleanliness. There, at any nearby standpipe, they wash themselves with diligence, brushing their teeth and scrubbing their clothes in the abundant waters from the annual monsoon rains.

When it was first suggested I visit Kolkata, I politely declined. I’d always longed to travel through India but saw myself more suited to the marble palaces of romantic Rajasthan. The purpose of the trip proved irresistible however - to meet a man I’d worked with when I was just 19, the prolific author Dominique Lapierre whose epic masterpiece The City of Joy documenting life in the slums of Calcutta was translated into 31 languages and made into a film starring Patrick Swayze.

I’d first met Dominique and his co-author Larry Collins in Spain in the 1960s. Whilst researching and interpreting …or I’ll Dress You in Mourning, the biography of the iconic bullfighter Manuel Benítez ‘El Cordobés’, I was flung into a relationship with the charismatic matador. Now, 46 years later, here was my ex-boss offering to introduce me to yet another world.

In the early 1980s, Dominique Lapierre and his wife journeyed to Calcutta to meet Mother Teresa. The experience moved them so profoundly, they felt compelled to help the under-privileged children of West Bengal. These tiny scraps of humanity perished by the thousand, victims of malnutrition, poverty and diseases almost eradicated in the Western world.

The City of Joy Aid Organisation was founded as a non-profit making humanitarian project dedicated to rescuing, rehabilitating, educating and ameliorating all those little lives. By donating millions of dollars of his personal royalties, Dominique’s altruism and that of his supporters has created a network of clinics, schools, hospital boats and rehabilitation centres so that children who would otherwise have died of leprosy, tuberculosis and malaria, or grown up blind or crippled by polio could learn to read, write, walk, talk, play football and best of all, smile.

My mood as I packed for the trip was ‘flapprehensive’. Travelling alone, I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was that the term ‘city of joy’ was probably an irony, and as I locked my front door and left the luxury of my home, I was already looking forward to unlocking it on my return.

NOT MY MOTHER RUSSIA

2011-11-30T15:49:00.001-08:00

“In an uncertain world, all things are ‘usually...’”

So said our guide on our first morning in Moscow in response to the question: “Is it usually this cold in November?”

He followed this philosophy with another Russian gem:

“Take wodka on waking then you von’t have to vorry all day what time to have your first drink.”

Russia has always held a macabre fascination for me. Both sets of grandparents were Russian Jewish immigrants chased out by the Bolsheviks in the late 1800s during the pogroms. One uncle was thrown in the Volga with rocks tied round his ankles. Another was cut off in his prime by marauding horsemen wielding sabres. No ‘Mother Russia’ gathered my family unto her breast and so they dispersed in the diaspora to Buenos Aires, Brooklyn and Bayswater. Yet here I was returning to the land of my forefathers.

I’m not sure what I expected of Moscow but it wasn’t what I expected. I’d seen the footage of grey-coated, fur-hatted armies marching across a snow-brushed Red Square while grim-faced generals took the salute. I knew about the poverty and deprivation, families living ten to a room with barely a bowl of barley soup between them. I’d heard of dissidents being tortured by the KGB and youngsters yearning for a simple pair of jeans. But when Communism collapsed, Moscow went West to bring bling to the people.

Moscow is the capital of the world’s biggest country, the beating heart of European Russia. The architecture is a fusion of splendour and austerity: affluence in the shape of ornate Belle Époque classicism battling for supremacy over inevitable Cold War concrete. Lavish cathedrals with golden cupolas stand serenely in the shadow of thick set apartment blocks. Flashy shop fronts house French and Italian franchises; restaurants serve Asian Fusion cuisine and late-night Karaoke bars proclaim the shaking off of state-imposed imperialism.

The centre is spotless; wide avenues called ‘Prospekts’ are lined with grand baroque buildings reeking of Tsarist times. Dark forbidding structures in which 007, 8 and 9must surely have been interrogated seem less sinister with a branch of McDonald’s at street level.

Our agenda for Day One offered a City Tour but it omitted the word ‘walking’. The implied coach, minibus or private car was, in fact, Sergei, on time and on foot. We set off into the cold crisp morning ill-equipped against the Siberian wind that whistled through our very bones within minutes of leaving the overheated comfort of the National Hotel.

The pavements around the Kremlin are kept pristine by a militia of lady cleaners diligently disposing of every stray fag end, waste paper or leaf that dares to fall. One of them was beating the hell out of a tree so her co-worker could rake up the remnants and cart them away. Autumn and its attendant untidiness is not welcome here...

To be continued...

INDEPENDENT WOMAN!

2011-10-26T01:49:00.000-07:00

Check out this feature in today's INDEPENDENT:

http://www.independent.co.uk/travel/europe/a-spanish-love-affair-2375777.html

Great publicity for BLOOD ON THE SAND!

BLOOD ON THE SAND

2011-10-25T16:58:00.001-07:00

...IS NOW AVAILABLE ON AMAZON KINDLE!!!

Please tell all your friends to tell all their friends to download it onto their e-readers, computers, laptops, i-Pods or i-Pads.

The link is:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Blood-on-the-Sand-ebook/dp/B005Z5FG3G/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1319531514&sr=8-5

and it's priced at a bargain £1.71! How cool is that?!

Here's what the press says:

The first novel from the bestselling author of THE TOYBOY DIARIES (Old Street Publishing) this is set in the vividly evoked and heady atmosphere of 1960s Spain.

BLOOD ON THE SAND IS a highly entertaining, raunchy and fast-paced drama as young Cassi Samuels sets out from swinging 1960s London into the arms of El Macho, the leading bullfighter of the day. From innocent virgin to abused wife living her life in the eye of the media, Cassi faces tragedy and the ruin of her dreams.

High in emotion, the story takes us on a roller-coaster ride through her life and loves in the heat and dust of Andalucia.

This remarkable novel is inspired by Wendy’s own romantic involvement with the iconic matador El Cordobés. Wendy came to be part of his circle when she was acting as the Spanish interpreter for Dominique Lapierre and Larry Collins then working on the biography of El Cordobés: '… or I’ll Dress You in Mourning'.

BLOOD ON THE SAND is a fictional imagining of what might have been, had Wendy stayed in Spain and married her bullfighter.

BLOODY MARVELLOUS!!

2011-10-19T15:54:00.000-07:00

I have at last up - or is it down - loaded my first novel BLOOD ON THE SAND onto Amazon Kindle. This is very exciting!!!

It came out in Spain last year but will be available any day for all my English friends to read. I'll keep you posted on the link so you can get Kindling. You don't need to own an actual e-reader - you can down - or is it upload the programme onto any PC, Mac, lap or desktop.

It's all been so exhausting I now need to lie down in a darkened room so until the next blog, have a little read of this review to whet your appetites and thank you all for your support.

We are in the early ’60s. Cassi Samuels is an English girl of 18 who lives with her parents and older sister in London. She’s an innocent ingénue and one thing is clear: losing her virginity to just anyone is not on her agenda.

On a trip to Spain, she discovers the passionate world of bullfighting. On returning home, she covers her bedrooms walls with bullfight posters as if they were film stars. A little later, she flunks her exams on purpose and convinces her parents to allow her to complete her language studies through travel. Her destination: Andalucía.

Fate introduces her to a writer commissioned to write the biography of Rafael Romero “El Macho”, THE bullfighter of the day. As Cassi speaks Spanish, she is employed as interpreter which allows her to meet her idol.

But things do not go according to plan: although he is attracted to her, it is only to add her to his list of conquests before treating her with the utmost contempt. In any other circumstances, this should have sent her scurrying home but Cassi is inexperienced and thinks what has happened is normal. She is therefore prepared to give him another chance, especially when her very traditional family disinherit her after she tells them she’s in love with a bullfighter.

Locked away on his ranch expecting their child, she becomes the victim of a violent husband who has no intention of ever being faithful.

What captivated me most about this novel is without doubt the intensity of the characters’ feelings. It is a novel of extremes: on the one hand we have “El Macho” being cruel and cool, prepared to achieve his goals even if it means harming others – and on the other hand we have the young Cassi, naive, sweet and easy to manipulate often seeming silly for not opening her eyes.

There is no middle ground. The other characters are either charming or hateful and it is impossible not to side with Cassi and wish with all your heart that her situation improves.

This novel is very dramatic. It transcends the normal romantic genres which often seem superficial and trite with over-idealized love stories.

In this book, great passion is transmitted to the reader which shows that the author has achieved her purpose. The book becomes a perfect choice for those looking to enjoy a good read with authentic feelings and conflicts between the protagonists.

Importantly, the intensity of the feelings grow as the story progresses. When things start to seem predictable, something unexpected happens that grips your heart and gives you butterflies.

The author retains the reader’s attention and knows when and how to enhance the highlights. I often thought “too much melodrama” while reading, but I don’t think this is a defect: it is sometimes good to read a book that reflects the best and worst of human passions.

The other noteworthy aspect of this novel is its entertainment value. It hooks you with its simple yet fluid style and has everything a read should have. As many people only read for entertainment or to escape reality BLOOD ON THE SAND achieves this.

There is plenty of action and the story never stagnates. It has surprising twists, which in this genre are not always easy to find. It’s impossible to get bored.

If this were a film adaptation, it could be a pretty decent movie. The book is very visual and precisely because it is full of passion, it would work well on screen.

BLOOD ON THE SAND may not be the soap opera of the century and despite being listed as ‘romance’, it goes beyond the clichés of this genre. This is a work full of passion that never leaves the reader bored. The plot twists take place at the right time; the story is very well constructed. I enjoyed the flavours of gypsy Spain and the extremism of the characters. Formally, these are not positives, but I found them entertaining just the same.

In short, this is a highly recommended option if you are a demanding reader who enjoys books full of passion and feeling.

GORE AND GLORY

2011-09-27T05:32:00.001-07:00

They always were a strange lot, the Catalans: not content with force-teaching their children a language for which they will have no use in the outside world, they have now compounded their autonomy from the rest of Spain by banning bullfighting.

I know many of you will be clapping and cheering at this news . . . and that is your prerogative. Bullfighting has always been a contentious subject: never the Brits’ cup of tea – more like the Spaniards’ jug of sangria - BUT it is as much a part of Spain’s rich culture as flamenco, sun-drenched beaches, medieval cities and a bottle of full-bodied Rioja drunk in a noisy taberna with a plate of jamon Serrano and some garlic-infused olives.

The ancient art form dates back to prehistoric times when bulls were worshipped and then sacrificed. Later, the Romans staged many human-versus-animal events and religious festivities and royal weddings were celebrated by fights in local plazas, where noblemen would compete on horseback for a royal favour.

The populace enjoyed these displays so much that Spain introduced the practice of fighting on foot around 1726. Bullfighting then spread to Central and South America and in the 19th century to France, where it is now more popular than ever.

But back to Barcelona. Yes, it’s a fabulous city with its gaudy Gaudi architecture and unfinished Gothic Cathedral. The streets heave with tourists all the year round. But if the Catalans had their way, they’d cut themselves off completely from the rest of Spain and float the province out to sea – the equivalent of Cornwall disassociating itself entirely from Great Britain and banning cricket in the process.

Many Barcelona-based aficionados are now robbed of their right to watch their fiesta nacional on their own doorstep. They will have to travel far and wide to support their favourite matadors. They’re not best pleased about this. The vote only just scraped by in parliament. Fans are distraught that their freedom of choice has been taken away in what many see as a political move. And the Catalans still indulge in the much more barbaric practices of bull baiting, taunting and torturing than the artistry and tradition of la corrida.

Barcelona's 18,000-seat bullring was completely sold out last Sunday. Tickets changed hands at thousand of euros apiece. Those who couldn’t get one slept on the streets hoping to pick up a last minute day seat at the gate.

The closure of the city's two bullrings (Las Arenas - The Sands - is now a shopping mall) enrages more Spaniards than it pleases. La Monumental where the final fight took place on Sunday would have Juan Belmonte, the founding father of today’s style, spinning in his grave. . .

Sobbing spectators grabbed handfuls of sand as they left the ring to save for posterity. They hope to throw it back in one day if the ban is lifted.

I don’t wish to argue the point as to whether bullfighting has a place in modern society or not. The brave and beautiful bullfighters who face death every afternoon have bigger balls in every sense than the higher-earning footballers which whom they compete for the front pages. Their successes and failures are reported on the Arts pages though, not the Sports pages.

I have a vested interest in the subject as my first novel BLOOD ON THE SAND is about to be released on Amazon Kindle.

Based on my experiences in the 1960s as the girlfriend of the world’s most famous matador, El Cordobés, it’s a visceral love story between an innocent, young English girl and a hot-blooded Gypsy matador set against the backdrop of Andalucía.

I saw my first bullfight at the age of nine. I was immediately captivated by the colour, the pageantry, the music, the drama and the depth of feeling between a heroic man in a satin suit of lights and 600 kilos of raw killing machine.

Spain has soul. Spain has passion. The bullfight has gore and it has glory but those who don’t want to watch it don’t have to buy a ticket.

IT WAS THE BAGEL...

2011-08-14T15:43:00.001-07:00

...that gave it away - the bagel he was eating when I boarded the train: wrapped in foil, richly laden with smoked salmon and cream cheese, obviously homemade! That was what had made the alarm bell go off.

As the week progressed and our date at The Dorchester drew near, I asked myself the following questions:

Did I fancy him enough to get involved if my suspicions were justified?

Was he tall enough, gorgeous enough and charismatic enough for me to do the dirty on another woman for the sake of what? A roll (or a bagel) in the hay with a 60-something who travelled 2nd class?

The answer was an unequivocal NO!

And so I texted him again.

About Thursday...will Mrs W be joining us?

He phoned me immediately.

"Er, you're right," he said, "there is a Mrs W but..."

"Stop right there. That's not what I'm about, thanks, so I won't be joining you after all."

"I quite understand." He sounded disappointed. "I'll delete your number and never contact you again. It's just that you were so engaging and I thought..."

"Bye." I said and hung up.

I wasn't always that moral. Had he looked like Clooney, Pitt or Gere, Mrs C, P or G wouldn't have bothered me one iota. I've done Other Woman and I've done Mistress and both can be a lot of fun but I'm evolving, and although I'm not sure what I'm looking for at the moment, I know I'm not looking for that.

* * *

Following a family holiday in Spain in which I went from Glamour to Granma without passing Go or collecting my 200 euros, I'm now in Edinburgh at my beloved Fringe Festival, the highlight of my entertainment calendar.

It's peeing with rain as usual, but apparently there is no such thing as 'inclement weather', only inappropriate clothing. And so I don the mac and boots and pick up my umbrella and set off up The Mound for another round of comedy, theatre, magic and performance art.

When I get back, my novel BLOOD ON THE SAND launches on Kindle. I need you all to download it PLEASE! You can read it too, if you like, and tell everyone else you know to do the same - it'll be free or cheap as chips to begin with but the more people show interest, the higher up the Amazon sales ranking it'll go!

I'll let you have a firm date in my next blog then you can help me spread the word, so until then enjoy the rest of summer and look out for more details soon.

STRANGER ON A TRAIN

2011-07-17T16:22:00.000-07:00

I get on at London Paddington and walk through the train to my designated seat. I don’t like it and the carriage isn’t full so I sit down somewhere else.

A smart-looking man gets on and sits across from me but one row forward. He opens a briefcase and removes a bagel wrapped in foil. He separates the two halves, examines the contents, rearranges the smoked salmon and begins eating. I open my laptop and start to work.

The train sets off. After about 20 minutes, the man gets up, looks around, comes over to me and says: “Could you please watch my things for a moment? I’m going to get a coffee.”

“Sure" I say, "and when you come back, I might ask you to return the favour so I can get something.”

“Would you like me to bring you back a coffee?” he asks. I hesitate. I had more in mind a fruit juice but I don’t want to start making demands so I say: “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

When he returns, he makes a bit of a production of putting my coffee down on the tray, arranging a sachet of white sugar and one of brown with a wooden stirrer alongside. I thank him profusely and get out my purse. He waves his hand at it dismissively but continues to hover. I do not want to get involved in conversation. I have two hours of dead time ahead and I want to work.

He returns to his seat. We both sip our coffee then look at each other because the drink is just bitter hot water. Truly disgusting!

“I’m sorry about this!” he says. “I really can do better.” I shrug, smile, mutter something placatory and carry on writing.

At the next station a group of noisy schoolchildren get on. Their teacher instructs them loudly where to sit then barks at them to eat their sandwiches and clear up all their rubbish. The man and I catch each other’s others eye and acknowledge the disturbance.

As we near Bristol, he gets up and prepares to leave the train. As he passes my seat, he leans over and proffers me his business card. “Seriously," he says, "I’d be delighted to buy you a decent cup of coffee some time?"

I’m slightly taken aback but I smile and say: “Maybe...”

I look at the card. His office address is close to where I live but it occurs to me that if he was the sort of man I’d like to know I’d have preferred him to be travelling to his business meeting in the back of a chauffeur-driven Bentley or at least in the first-class carriage.

An hour passes. I’m now distracted and slightly bored plus my laptop’s running out of juice and I can’t find anywhere to plug it in. So I pick up the card again and I text him.

“I’m not much of a coffee drinker but you do owe me a decent cup!”

We text on and off over the next couple of days. I’m staying with a friend in Devon but on the Sunday night, when the man obviously estimates I will be home, I receive:

“May I have the pleasure of inviting you for cocktails at the Dorchester on Thursday evening?”

That’s more like it! I think. “How very charming!” I reply. “But I can’t do Thursday. Weds any good?”

He doesn’t reply for about 3 hours, re-arranging his life, presumably. Eventually, I get: “Weds perfect. Building up my charming points. 6.30? X”

Then an alarm bell goes off in my head...

To be continued

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A SINGLE SUPERGRAN

2011-06-09T04:32:00.000-07:00

7.58 a.m. Woken by frantic text from daughter: Got tonsillitis :( Could you pls pick N (aged 3) up from nursery and keep him for the afternoon? It would really help if you could give him supper and a bath and bring him home ready for bed. Pls Mama? XX

Bugger. That’s my day shot to hell. I love my grandson, oh I do, and I can always write a book, meet my PR agent, go to the hygienist and buy a hat for Royal Ascot some other time. Soon he’ll be all grown up and won’t have time to see me anymore. I know I am blessed. I throw on some clothes and make-up and run to the shops.

I buy ingredients to make healing chicken soup then pick N up at Little Monkeys. He hurtles towards me and throws his arms around my neck. My love cash register kerchings £1,000.000.

Back home, he ‘helps’ me cut the carrots up with a wooden spoon. They go all over the kitchen floor. He trips on one, falls over and bites into his lip. It comes up like a blackberry. He shrieks for his mummy. I give him a Malteser and hold him on my hip while I get the soup on with the other hand. Then I hustle him out the door and down the stairs to go to the park.

When we reach the street, I realise he’s still wearing his slippers. I clomp back up again and get his shoes.

He runs wild in the playground meant for 7-11 year olds just missing being hit by a swing. I run after him shouting warnings then have to scale the climbing frame because although he gets to the top, he doesn’t fancy the twirly-whirly slide coming down. I wrestle him into his buggy while he goes all stiff and march him up the hill.

He spies the ice cream van before I do, so I have no time to spin on my axis and go the other way. He wants an ice cream. I want an ice cream. I want an ice cream. I WANT AN ICE CREAM! It’ll spoil your supper. It’ll spoil your supper. IT’LL SPOIL YOUR SUPPER!

He throws a small fit which I ignore then thankfully, he falls asleep. I sink down on a bench to catch my breath. His mother texts: Don’t for G-d’s sake let him fall asleep or he won’t go to bed tonight. Still feel shite :/

I stride down the hill again singing The Wheels on the Bus very loudly to wake him up. Passers-by glance at me as if I’m nuts. A dog comes up and yaps stridently into N’s face. He awakes with a start and begins to howl.

The pup runs off. I lift him out of his pushchair to give him a cuddle but traumatised by his rude awakening, he has a little accident. I rummage in my bag for his spare panties and get him changed al fresco. He does not appreciate this ignominy, poor mite.

Back home, we struggle up the stairs. He just about makes it to the loo to finish what he started earlier then he wants ‘computer time’. I put on the longest Peppa Pig clip I can find and he sits quietly for about eight seconds before playing Bang! Bang! on the keys of my laptop although I’ve told him not too. I quickly save and close an important document I haven’t backed up and am terrified of losing.

I give him supper, answer a couple of urgent emails but ignore all phone calls, then I put him in the bath. He happily splashes water all over the room while I rush to redo my hair and make-up and get changed into smarter clothes.

We play: “Where’s the little boy gone?” while he hides beneath the towel then I get him into his pyjamas, put the pot of soup into a strong carrier bag, totter everything downstairs, strap him into the car seat and drive him home.

He repeats: “Where’s MisterManintheMoon, Didi?” on a continuous loop the whole way back. The night sky is cloudy but can I explain that? I hand him over to his father who’s just got in, put the saucepan of soup on the hob, pop in to check on my poor, sick daughter who’s trying to breast feed the baby without breathing on her, then I rush off to the theatre feeling guilty for not having cancelled it and stayed on to help out.

I arrive just in time, flustered, and when I open my bag to switch my mobile phone off, a tiny pair of damp Y-fronts fall out. My date raises an eyebrow.

“Still seeing that toyboy then?” he asks.

I wink at him and relax back in my seat to watch the play.

MEA CULPA. . .

2011-05-06T10:59:00.000-07:00

Conscious of not having blogged for way too long despite having promised to do so. Sorry, dear reader . . .

I've been in Spain - not an excuse as such but what with the weather, my sister, my nieces, nephews, great-nieces, great-nephews, Royal Wedding, bullfights, Holy Week processions (mostly cancelled due to rain - yeah! In Spain while you lot were basking in some kind of climate swap) every time I sat down to write something happened and I had to get up again!

I'm working in earnest on NOW! The New Older Woman which is going well and my agent said there was plenty of interest at London Book Week recently, but the most exciting news (I shouldn't even be sharing as it might not come off) is that the BBC are looking to make a documentary about an older woman who used a throwaway line on a radio programme about wanting to dance burlesque . . .

I shan't elaborate until it's further down the line but I've already been on stage at the Cafe de Paris and may I tell you: it's not for the faint-hearted!

My children will obviously disown me once and for all. I haven't dared mention a word about it and part of me rather hopes it won't come off. If it does, that won't be the only thing coming off as I'm not sure how one can perform authentic burlesque in a twinset and pearls with a tweed skirt and 20 denier stockings on - not that that's my usual mode of attire but the sight of all that young, firm flesh parading itself before my very eyes made me realise that I must be totally insane to even think about trying to 'compete'.

I want them to laugh with me not at me. I'm not going to bump and grind, as on a woman of my age that will look ridiculous. I wish I'd kept my big mouth shut in the first place, yet another part of me is shouting: Bring It On! because after all, how many more chances to do something this outrageous am I going to get?

Gotta get ready for a date now - he's nearing 40 so not exactly a TB but still 25 years younger than me - yippee! By the way, lace top hold-ups don't stay up if you've just moisturised your legs. Just thought I'd share that, ladies, or gents if that is your proclivity.

I'll keep you posted on the rest. Promise.

SHIPS IN THE NIGHT

2011-03-20T03:50:00.000-07:00

Holiday romances are a terrible cliché and should not be taken seriously at any cost but I’ve just come back from a Nile cruise followed by 3 nights in Cairo and guess what? I fell in love.

Having steeled myself never to allow another man anywhere near my heart ever again (my body is another matter . . . ) this Prince of Egypt with his devastating good looks, liquid eyes, batwing eyelashes and thick black locks swept me off my feet the second my gaze lit on him.

I didn’t seek it - I didn’t want it - I didn’t need it! - but there it was: heart fluttering like a trapped butterfly, breath catching in my dry throat, clammy palms, nervous giggles – the whole nine yards.

Of course when I say ‘in love’ I actually mean ‘in lust’. He was – and is – drop dead gorgeous.

For the first few days we flirted: little flashes of eye contact, secret smiles, looks than lasted longer than was strictly necessary. A tentative dialogue began: about the temples and the tombs at Luxor, the camel ride to the Nubian village, the felucca boat near Aswan and all the wondrous wonders of his amazing ancient world.

Almost subliminally, he began to materialise wherever I happened to be: on the sun terrace, round the pool, in the lounge, the dining-room, the reception area, the Panorama Bar. Late one afternoon at sunset, when everyone else had gone to their cabins to get ready for the Galabaya Party, I stayed writing up on deck. A lone figure lingered near the prow gazing out as the languid river drifted slowly past.

My concentration deserted me. I closed my laptop and wandered over to where he stood. And when he looked at me directly, up close for the first time, I drowned . . . drowned in the eternal well of his smouldering chestnut eyes.

What quirk of fate is this? I thought. To come away with my sister to a country no one wanted us to go to and find this magician, this weaver of spells, this legend of the Pharaohs right here in my face?

“Hello again” he whispered, as if we’d known each other long ago in another place and time. The words felt like warm treacle being spread across my breasts.

With very little more passing between us, we contrived to spend more time together. Intimate glances became our private language and I knew – as a perceptive woman – that something special had begun.

We snatched an hour on the last night, up on deck beneath a lemon moon - talking, teasing, our voices thick with promise. I told him (rather cleverly I thought) that my mobile was not receiving calls and would he mind dialling it. So now he had my number.

When time ran out, we said goodbye. He took a step towards me . . . then shook my hand instead. The kiss hovered unfulfilled between us in the air, the power of the visceral more intense than the carnal. We had our chance but didn’t take it. Nothing as base as cabin-hopping for the likes of us!

The minute I left, the texting began. I miss you. I need you. When will we meet again? How can I survive without your smile?

God knows what my bill’s going to be but you know something? I don’t care. Connections like this don’t come along that often and although I’ll probably never see him again, it was a lovely interlude.

He’s 41.

And a little bit married.

So now I’m going to get on with my life and not cry because it’s over but smile because it happened.

Wouldn't you like to fly...?

2011-03-05T16:40:00.000-08:00

Did I mention I've decided never to say 'No!' to anything again? I’m not talking about that third helping of tiramisù or paddling across the Pacific on a plank, but turning down opportunities which may not arise again. After all, how many more chances am I gonna get? And it’s never too soon to start ticking off boxes on your bucket list cos before you know it the bucket’s gone rusty or you’ve kicked it before your time. The point is not to be frightened and never to think - let alone say: “I’m too old to do that.”

This musing was prompted by an invitation, as previously mentioned, to go hot air ballooning. Wow! I thought. Offers like that don’t come along every day and it’s something I’ve always wanted to do. So I accepted with delight and gratitude but when I started telling people, some tried to bring me down with comments like: “Is it safe?” and “Won’t you be terrified?” which only compounded my desire to go.

The Festival International du Ballon takes place every year at Chateau-d’Oex, a picturesque village in the Swiss Alps. That's where we headed along with hundreds of other enthusiasts and spectators who flock to the town to marvel at the myriad of brightly-coloured balloons of all shapes and sizes taking to the skies.

Everyone ooh-ed and aah-ed as the aeronautical displays took place: paragliding, freefalling, sky-diving and a daredevil stuntman looping the loop in his busy, buzzy biplane. Could this be the famous Jean-Pierre Camembert who always goes down in flames? I wondered - and I knew it was him when I saw his cheesy grin.

The weather was perfect: cornflower blue sky, diamond white snow and billows of impatient inflatables straining to take off. We watched fascinated as the long limp lengths of cloth laid out on the piste were pumped full of air until they rose up like perfect soufflés.

We propped up the Champagne Bar while awaiting our flight and our names were eventually called. Rope handlers controlled the eager vessel as we clambered clumsily into the basket and were then released to soar . . . up, up and away in our beautiful balloon.

The landscape below soon diminished into Dolls' World as we floated freely above the earth – free to breathe the pure fresh air and reach out into the wide blue yonder, no metal wing or plastic pane shielding us from the atmosphere.

The pilot kept the craft climbing with powerful gusts of hot air blasted into the balloon’s body from the onboard gas cylinders. Hot air rises, cool air falls – that’s how it works. I feared my hair might catch fire such was the power of the flames but luckily the tanks were far enough away.

We reached our cruising altitude then drifted lazily across the valley over fields, forests and farmland - on the north side white with snow, on the south, a peaceful patchwork in varied shades of green. Cattle grazed, deer ambled, rabbits scampered homeward as foxes prowled around. It was fascinating to watch from above and you couldn’t help but wonder at this serene and silent world you’d never seen before.

After an hour or so, we landed lightly beside a cow shed, bending our knees as instructed to absorb any impact. The balloon was kept inflated so the pick-up truck could find us then they folded it away, stashed the basket in the back and returned us to our base. If I was asked to describe the experience in one word, I'd have to say'tranquil' for that is the enduring quality of a balloon flight.

Had I said ‘No’, I’d have missed out on a beautiful adventure so I'm glad I ignored the scare-mongers and did what I wanted to do.

I'm ignoring them again on Monday when I leave for Egypt - Gawd 'elp me. Camouflage patterned swimwear is all packed for the Luxor-Aswan trip and sequinned flak jacket and harem pants for Cairo! More about that next time.

SOME DAY MY PRINCE WILL COME . . .

2011-02-06T04:45:00.000-08:00

IS IT ME... or is a bloke terrific company until that moment when he falls asleep and starts snoring – the moment when all the cooing and wooing in the world would not be sufficient to stop you wanting to put a pillow over his head or sit on his face but not in a good way?

For all the blokes already bristling as they read this, I suppose some women snore too but not like a herd of hogs at an International Hog Snoring Festival. I could possibly have woken myself up with a gentle purr once or twice in my life but that’s not a capital offence. Someone obliviously asleep while I lie there gritting my teeth is.

The latest incident occurred when Prince Harming arrived after a long-planned preamble laden with foods and flowers and proceeded to wreck my kitchen in the nicest possible way cooking me a sumptuous meal.

Many intimate hours followed: coupling, clearing up, coupling, conversation, coupling, Scrabble, coupling, bubble bath, coupling, massage, coupling - but not necessary in that order.

(As an aside, sometimes all that coupling can be excessive what with the 30-year age gap and his energy levels being slightly higher than mine! Add to the mix a few interruptions from my children asking for maternal advice and recipes and focus can become diverted . . . One has to learn to switch off and on again very quickly in this game!)

Anyway – back to the snoring (if we must). After the last bout of whatever it was we were doing, the prince finally fell asleep. Aaah! I thought. Bless! And actually Phew! But then it began...

I tolerated it for about half an hour. Every time I tried to zone out, give him a gentle nudge, a tut, a sigh, a wriggle, a poke and a prod, it stopped for a second or two then resumed again in earnest. The thing is if I don’t get my beauty sleep, I am less like a purring pussycat and more like A GRUMPY TIGER!

So what to do? The only thing possible: I woke him up and asked him very politely if he would like to go and sleep on the sofa. I offered him pillows and a goose down duvet but NO. He decided to call a cab and go home. At 3.30 in the morning! I confess I was secretly delighted: I could have a shower, take off my make-up, put on my Clarins, stick a couple of rollers in my hair, remake the bed and GET A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP!

But when he actually left, the relief turned to recrimination. Poor chap being turfed out of my nice, warm bed into the cold, dark night after all that cooking and caressing... Would I ever hear from him again? (I did). And how much did I care? (I did).

I’m going down the local shooting club to buy some ear defenders before he comes again. ‘Cos that was pretty noisy too!

I'll tell you about the hot air ballooning next time. It was COOL!

UP, UP AND AWAY!

2011-01-14T02:15:00.000-08:00

Considering I'm going to be 65 in 4 weeks' time (how in hell did THAT happen!!) I think it's an opportune moment to take my first hot air balloon flight at the annual tournament that takes place soon in Chateau d'Oex in the Swiss Alps.

I nearly dared in Aspen on my 50th with my then 28-year old long-term live-in lover (yes, that's retrospective boasting!) but it was sooo expensive, and this time I've been invited! : - )

After a blissful Christmas spent in peaceful solitude, I set off early next morning for Montreux where I was treated like a queen for 8 whole days. My hosts had planned a programme of events which included skiing, toboganning, skating, sleigh rides, a fondue in an Ice Hotel (brrr!), lunch on 31st December in a revolving restaurant atop the mountain with the sun shining and a glorious azure sky, sightseeing, shopping and a lorra lorra eating.

On NYE, we laid out a terrific spread, watched the fireworks over Lake Geneva then played charades till 3 a.m. Wot larks!

Back to a world of unnatural disasters: the Brisbane and Brazilian floods on the back of last year's volcanic eruption, unseasonal snow and weird weather fronts makes one a little uneasy about the future.

It's probable that these devastations have been taking place for millenia but with the lack of media and no cities where they're currently happening, who knew?

So far this year, one friend's son suffered a fractured skull falling down a flight of concrete steps, another friend's daughter has been diagnosed with breast cancer and another one has lost all her money due to a bad investment.

My heart goes out to them. Don't sweat the small stuff guys. Do as I do. Count your blessings ...

I know this blog is short but my resolution is to write little and often. Tell me off if I don't!

BAH HUMBUG OR BAH BADOS?

2010-12-25T03:27:00.000-08:00

On what is probably the most stressful morning of the year for most women, I am still tucked up beneath the duvet enjoying a delicious breakfast with a day of tranquillity stretched out ahead of me. Deep pleasurable sigh...

After an intensely busy and draining couple of months, I have finally managed – this Christmas Day - to achieve the promised Peace on Earth at least on the little Piece of Earth where I reside.

With two daughters, two sons-in-law and five grandchildren taking it in turns to be ill all winter, it’s been an angst-y time all round, I've been dashing across town with vats of healing chicken soup while being afraid to answer the phone or open texts in case they heralded another drama or disaster. Add the task of emptying out two homes in different countries which have been in the family for five generations, and you’ll have an idea why I’ve been off the radar for a while.

The physically and emotionally draining job of clearing out the flat in which I grew up is something I’ll be glad to put behind me. Having recently sorted out and redecorated my own living-room, I now find it re-cluttered with stuff I don’t want but simply cannot get rid of. A lesson to us all: keep your possessions to a minimum so those whose job it will be to tidy up after you don’t lose control of their lives doing so!

Yet how do you throw away love letters between your parents dated 1942? Birthday cards and telegrams sent to me when I was a tiny tot? My father’s call-up papers into the Argentine army and discharge papers with commendation ribbons when he left the Merchant Navy? My Russian great grandparents naturalization papers dated 1910 signed with a X as they clearly couldn’t write ... and the photos – oh the photos...who were all those forbidding-looking ancestors with frozen faces? Didn’t anyone smile for the camera in those days?

Add the filthy weather into the mix and instead of welcoming snow in future, we shall dread it forevermore! My poor sister who lives in Spain tried to get home several times last week and ended up making a dawn dash from London to Gatwick back to Victoria then to Euston and eventually to Manchester where she finally caught a flight to Malaga after her London departure had been cancelled for the 3rd time. What a trooper!

As for me, not a word of writing has passed my fingers these past 2 months but as from today, I’m determined to remedy this. My New Year Resolution comes a little early but I WILL finish my book edit during January and I WILL resume blogging.

I’m off to Switzerland tomorrow for a well-earned rest. I may not have the energy to ski but I can always ‘après’. Either way, I’ll recharge my batteries and come back fighting fight, I hope.

SEASON’S GREETINGS to you all and a stupendous 2011, folks. Be good to yourselves or better still, find someone else to do it for you!

BRIGHTON BEACH MEMOIRS

2010-10-23T03:15:00.000-07:00

Not sure if I ever told you, but just after I was born, my family emigrated to America, the land of opportunity where the streets were ‘paved with gold’. Although I’ve been back many times since, earlier this month my sister and I decided to retrace our childhood steps and set off for Brooklyn, Noo Yawk to see if we could find the ancestral tenement.

The year was 1946. Dad had gone on ahead - Mum to follow with Marilyn aged 4 and I, aged 5 months. Decked out in her newly-purchased post-war undergarments: brassiere, liberty bodice, panty girdle, seamed stockings and suspenders, hand-made wool dress with matching coat, high-heeled shoes, hat and gloves all specially designed for her grand arrival into the New World, she didn’t reckon on the flight taking almost four days...

We set off from our home in Tottenham where all the neighbours had turned out to wave us goodbye and wish us luck. We reached the Croydon Aerodrome for the first leg of the journey to Shannon only to be told that the aircraft would not be air-worthy until the following day. Trooped back home again. Our grandmother, with whom we’d lived, had already let the rooms.

Off again the following morning with slightly less pomp and ceremony, we eventually reached Shannon only to be told (in great confidence) that the aeroplane on which we were due to fly the Atlantic was deemed ‘unsafe’. Women and children were advised not to board. Everyone else was!

They put us up that night in a boarding house on the west coast of Ireland in a single room with another mother and her two babies, one of whom had whooping cough. Mum sat up all night shielding our delicate rosebud mouths and button noses with pieces of muslin to distract the ambient germs.

By morning, she’d run out of nappies and was obliged, according to family legend, to use scrunched up toilet paper (of the rough Izal kind) plus sheets of cardboard for my delicate little tush. Her elegant costume, as well as her mood, was by now somewhat frayed around the edges. Our Dad meanwhile, in the absence of adequate lines of communication, cast a worried eye across the empty skies.

We finally took off in a tin box held together with spit and sealing wax and rattled across the Atlantic for 21 hours finally coming down with a flop of relief in Newfoundland. They put me in a drawer for landing. The pilot thought it would be safer than wobbling about on my mother’s knee when she already had a fractious 4-year old to contend with.

Onwards to Manhattan, and from there to Los Angeles. Mummy didn’t take to the sun-drenched, sprawling, unstructured city with no public transport whose only redeeming feature was a pubescent film industry in a suburb called Hollywood. We settled nearby and stayed for 8 months. There I spoke my first words and took my first steps.

Back to New York where my mother reckoned she was halfway home. We moved in with Aunt Miriam (who weighed 24 stone) and her Polish immigrant husband, Uncle Mike, who hardly spoke a word of English. Our address was 3085 Brighton 13th Street , Brooklyn, an address imprinted on my mind ever since from the airmail letters with a $5 bill inside that Aunt Miriam used to send us for our birthdays after we’d returned to the UK in 1950.

And so, in October 2010, my sister and I arrived in NYC after an effortless 7 hour flight and set off to find 3085 Brighton 13th Street. It was a Sunday. We took the subway from Times Square but were turfed off halfway due to ‘works on the line’. Shame shit. Different continent. We boarded a shuttle bus (slightly less traumatic than our mother’s journey 60 years before) and watched the street names rumble by until one said Brighton 10th Street where we leapt off.

As we walked towards 13th Street, my sister, who generally has little memory for distant detail, suddenly began to have flashbacks. “OMG! That’s where Daddy used to go to phone home!” she said excitedly, pointing to a small news and candy store. At the back of the shop had been 2 telephone booths where you’d book a call through an operator and go back 6 hours later to see if it had come through!

We walked on wondering whether our building would still be standing. The other side of the road was seafront – the famous Boardwalk (...under the Boardwalk, out of the sun, under the Boardwalk, we’ll be having some fun...) that leads all the way to Coney Island.

3085 was indeed still standing - a 5-storey, brick-built Victorian block much grander than I expected for our then humble circumstances. It’s now mostly occupied by middle-class Russians. We followed a couple inside, found the janitor and told him our story. He listened fascinated then showed us around. My sister again began to remember stuff: the rubbish chutes hidden in a small cupboard on each floor, the laundry room in the basement that housed the washing-machines into which our Dad would place his dime – the dime he’d drilled a hole in and tied a piece of string around so he could retrieve it to use again!

The building’s manageress had joined us by this time and asked if we remembered which number we’d lived at. We didn’t but by description she said it must be 2C and when she knocked on the door and asked the lady if we could look around, my sister freaked out.

It was exactly the same – the layout, the view from the bedroom window down to the yard where she used to play (remind me one day to tell you the story of my beloved panda...) the bathroom - in this apartment still unmodernised – where Marilyn reminded me I was sitting on the loo one day aged two and the ceiling fell down on my head! This may explain certain things...

The lady now occupying the flat had a china plate of Noah’s Ark on her wall. Later we walked along the Boardwalk and stopped for lunch at a Russian restaurant called Tatiana – 2 of my grandchildren are called Noah and Tatiana! Later I went to the loo in a branch of Wendy’s!

All in all, it was a wonderful re-affirming experience I was so glad to have been able to do with my sister. Ah ...Memory Lane ... take trip down there sometime.

(BTW HE arrived and we've met but out of respect, I'm not going to talk about it!!!!)

THE SILLY SEASON

2010-08-19T09:55:00.000-07:00

I decided to take August off - off what I'm not certain - my life, perhaps?

I went to Spain as usual and then to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival which never fails to deliver an entertainment overload of mega proportions. Love it!!

Back to a very brutal reality concerning my dearest Aunty Betty, my last remaining aunt, who has been like a Mum to me. She's seriously ill now and my sister and I are trying to get her into a care home. This is NOT easy... Don't go there. Find some other route into that good night. It's not pretty, it's not sexy and it's not fun.

Apart from that, if you read my last blog, HE is still on the fringes of my social scene, but I HAVEN'T MET HIM YET! Had he told me at the outset that he was going to be 'away on business for an indefinitely period' I may not have bothered to get involved. Of course he could be emailing me from the back of a van on the Watford by-pass and forwarding his messages to 20 other women, whaddo I know??

When I got back from Spain, however, in a surge of generous attentiveness, the postman rang thrice: a bouquet of roses because I don't want you to come home to an empty flat , a gift box of luxury bath products something to work up a splash with and some naughty little scanties which, frankly, made me quite cross.

I thought it was presumptuous and rather tacky of him. He said it was meant in good humour but what offended me most was that the gear in question was from Ann Summers rather than Agent Provocateur, Myla or La Perla!

I did forgive him though putting it down to a cultural ignorance of our better lingerie emporia bearing in mind the gentleman in question is not from these shores.

I actually had to venture into the store later to change the basque for a larger size (the XS he sent me has me busting out all over) and so I had the dubious pleasure of queueing at the counter with a coterie of ladies buying work clothes for their chosen profession. This prompted me to ponder whether there was a sliding scale of charges based on the punters choice of Nadia the Naughty Nurse, Fifi the French Maid or Dagmar the Darstardly Dom.

And on the question of 'sliding', he'd better make an appearance soon or the chocolate body paint and Heat! massage oil he sent me is going to go off, or get used with someone else...

IS LESS REALLY MORE OR IS TOO MUCH MORE THAN ENOUGH?

2010-07-25T11:20:00.000-07:00

A confusing question and one about which I’ll try not to brood... be amused or bemused might be more appropriate.

Let me explain. I’ve got a new 'thing' going on: one of those cautious (on my part) slow-builds that started as an absent-minded little hum and has fast developed into a full-blown heart ballad complete with gospel choir, a thousand strings and a brass and timpani section which is threatening to deafen me with the power of its persuasion.

I am being Right Royally Seduced.

I’ve played this game before, allowed myself to become 'involved' with a stranger - and yet...and yet...I can't help it if the songbirds are tweeting:

Maybe this time, I'll be lucky
Maybe this time, he'll stay
Maybe this time
For the first time
Love won't hurry away

He will hold me fast
I'll be home at last
Not a loser anymore
Like the last time
And the time before...

He’s foreign which accounts for him being so much more romantic. The best man in my life was foreign ... he didn’t think with his bowler hat or rolled umbrella but with the more earthy and visceral parts of himself.

He thought with his hands and his heart, his fingers, his toes and his tongue - not in the more obvious carnal way but in a subliminally intrusive yet much more subtle way – the way a bee approaches a flower and drinks its nectar without the flower even realising that it’s relinquished the most precious part of itself and given it willingly.

And so it is with us. Him: so full on and so eager, me: attempting to decline yet longing to submit.

Stendhal always comes to mind at times like these:

Love has nothing to do with the beloved person and everything to do with the lover’s imagination. The passion that transports us is our own.

We have not yet met but how dangerous is this divulging of thoughts and feelings across the waves of cyberspace? Every man I've had to do with has taken a little part of me as he's travelled through, but I've usually managed to grow it back with nobs on. A plant is pruned in order for it to flower again the following spring bigger and better than before.

Anyway, you know me – I always keep a little in reserve and never fully lose my head. My legs may be flung high up in the air but my feet are always planted firmly on the ground. And we're both aware that the pedestal we've placed each other on will crumble if the chemistry fails to connect.

So for now, I’ll dream, and if the dream becomes reality, then I shall be all the richer. And if it doesn’t, no harm done. He’s made me smile and made me write so thank you, S, at least for that.

The rest remains to be seen, felt and tasted. . .but with all this travelling to do, the question is: WHEN??

DON'T MENTION THE 'F' WORD!

2010-06-27T09:02:00.000-07:00

Hurrah! It's over! Now all those tossers with two-inch penises can take their silly flags off their cars, vans and bikes and get on with doing a decent day's work.

Goodbye permanently green TV screen. Goodbye irritating vuvuzelas. Goodbye boring commentators with their pre-and post-mortems. Goodbye In-ger-land. You're coming home - but not in a good way.

I know this will alienate 7/8th of the population but frankly, my dears, I don't give a damn. Not everybody loves football.

I know the fans will continue watching till the bitter end and I agree that our final score should have been 4-2, but really, that's academic now, isn't it?

I've had far too many dates postponed in the past few weeks because: "There's a really important game on... do you mind if we re-arrange?"

Well, yes, actually - I do, so go away little boy and come back when you've grown a pair.

The unappealing Mr. L who's been on the prowl these past few weeks has something in his favour: he doesn't follow 'the beautiful game' which gives him more time to spend with me.

Trouble is: I'd actually rather watch a football match than see him and that tells you everything you need to know!

Meanwhile, my long silence has been due to a gruelling work and social schedule which has left me little time for blogging. Apologies. I'll be back as soon as I've finished this second book edit.

Hope you're all well. Till soon...

GIVE THE EAR ITS OWN SHOW!

2010-05-22T06:56:00.000-07:00

In case you thought I’d dropped through a deep, dark hole in the planet, I have in fact been travelling around Spain on a promotional tour for my first novel ‘LA INGLESA Y EL TORERO’.

To say I’ve enjoyed every minute of it would be an understatement. I've lapped it up and swallowed it whole and embraced it with every fibre of my being!

That may sound incredibly self-obsessed but when an author of two volumes of nefarious memoirs find herself being hailed as a serious writer, one has to take the praise and run with it.

The premise of the novel is based on my experiences in the Spain of the 1960s with the world’s most famous bullfighter, Manuel Benitez 'El Cordobes'. I met him when I was working as the interpreter for two journalists writing his life story. I allowed him my virginity but to go on live TV and radio in Spain and speak about it in a foreign language to a goggle-eared public was daunting to say the least!

The ear of the title of this blog was thrown to me 45 years ago after an historic fight one brazen afternoon in 1965. For those who don’t know the finer points (and many of you will be too squeamish to care) when a matador has honoured his adversary with a noble death, they give him a trophy of the ears, tail or hooves of his bull. These he dispenses to the crowd.

As I stood there clapping till my palms burned, my Manolo winked at me broadly and swung the ear in my direction.

Here is an excerpt from my book - the character is Cassi Samuels, the matador is Rafael Romero 'El Macho' - both loosely based on himself and I.

“As if in slow motion, the severed appendage came flying through the air. People nearby jostled to reach it, but Cassi reacted quickly and caught it smartly in both hands like a clap. An explosion of fresh blood splattered across the front of her organdie top causing her to gasp as if she’d been stabbed.

Cassi looked down at first with horror, then with a creeping sense of pride. The irony was not lost on her: he’d spilt her maiden blood, but he’d replaced it with that of his nemesis. There was poetic justice in this, and in some indefinable way, it touched her as deeply as a blood brothers pact.

Her pretty blouse, like its occupant, had been branded as one of his possessions now, and she knew in that instant she would never wash it but would wear it with honour and if anyone wanted to know what the stains were, she’d bloody well tell them.

Cassi turned the amputated trophy over in her hand and stroked it affectionately. The black hair on the outside was long and coarse but on the inside the ear it was soft, fleshy and disturbingly, still warm. She said a silent thank-you to the brave beast who’d died so valiantly in her name and who’d sacrificed his life with such dignity and grace. . .”I know that bullfighting is seriously frowned upon in the UK, despite their love of fox-hunting... I happen to be a serious aficionada and I make no excuse for that. You either understand and approve of this element of the Iberian culture or you don’t.

And so the dried-out ear accompanied me on my book tour and has now appeared on a variety of TV chat shows all over Spain. Some people turned their noses up but others were fascinated.

I’m sure the ear enjoyed the attention. It has, after all, but stuck away in a box for some four decades waiting for its (second) moment in the sun.

And by the way, how many other women do you know who - as they say in Spain - 'opened their flower' to a bullfighter??

FAMILY AFFAIRS

2010-04-25T15:19:00.001-07:00

A happy busy time just now as my 12-year old granddaughter Tatiana prepares her rite of passage from girlhood to womanhood. The ceremony followed by the inevitable Big Bash has been the sole topic of conversation for the past six months.

In the Jewish religion, a barmitzvah is when a boy turns 13, comes of age and becomes a man. The girls have jumped the gun, got on the bandwagon and are having theirs a year early at the age of 12.

Crumbling under the weight of filial pressure, my daughter and son-in-law have been mugged into having the most expensive party they can afford. I disapprove totally but cannot voice it. It's tradition, they say, like Christmas. It's commercial, I reply. Like Christmas.

Having already been invited to many other such parties, Tatiana returns home each time with fresh and ever more costly ideas:

"They had a tattoo artist! A belly dancing teacher! Goodie bags containing Gucci keyrings! A herd of performing elephants for each child to take home!"

And so the buzz words are: caterers, marquee, red carpet, dance floor, balloons, canapés, food stations, sushi chefs, mirror balls, microphones, cocktails, bouncers, dresses, shoes, hats, tights, hair and make-up.

And thousands and thousands of pounds being blown away on people who won't appreciate it nor even remember it the following day.

She's 12 for God's sake! When I was 12 I probably had 3 schoolfriends over for a peanut butter sandwich and a bowl of jelly. And then maybe we played a game of Ludo.

Do I sound like a grumpy old woman? Possibly, but my poor daughter would rather have spent the money on a fabulous holiday that at least she too could have enjoyed.

Now don't get me wrong. I am looking forward to it. And I've bought myself a whole wardrobe full of new outfits. And I'm sure we'll all have a fantastic time. But all that money...it makes me want to weep.

I just hope Tatiana appreciates it. She has 2 younger sisters so we have to go through this whole thing again. Twice.

And then if we're lucky, there'll be 3 weddings hopefully before my funeral!

I refuse to be 'one of the grandmas' next weekend. I'm determined to get up to mischief of some sort. What do you reckon? One of the neighbour's sons? They're 26 and 28. And both cute. I'll keep you posted.

ROAD TO REDEMPTION

2010-04-05T05:45:00.000-07:00

I love make-up and I love sex but what I love most is make-up sex.

I don’t mean rouging my nipples and painting my partner’s genitalia with lipstick and mascara, I mean getting it together again when you’ve been apart for a while.

Let me explain: having so upset my latest flame to the extent that he nearly went out, I feel it only fair to give him credit where it’s due.

The gentleman in question, whose knee so jerked when he became the subject of my blog “Is ‘Good’ Good Enough?” has crept back into my affections and redeemed himself in a rather pleasing way.

Now I don’t want to swell his pretty little raven-haired head any more than it is already (I am conscious as I write this that he is going to read it) but we had a rather fine reunion which definitely deserved an A-. OK. An A then. Alright, alright. An A+.

The very thing I commented on, or rather complained about last time, was the fact that we felt so comfortable with each other. This caused him to deduce that I was dissatisfied because there were ‘no fireworks’. He immediately concluded that there were none on his side either which was, of course, missing the point.

Fireworks are all very well but they burn out far too quickly. Harmony on several levels doesn’t.

We do seem reasonably compatible. Whether we had genuinely missed each other is for me to know and him to find out. And as for the comfort factor, how many people would you feel sufficiently at ease with to break off a hot humping session to talk about fried fish?!

I hasten to add that the segue between passion and battered seafood was not a reflection on the ambient odours surrounding us at the time.

It was, rather typically, a close encounter of the Jewish kind in which food must be mentioned, if not eaten, at all times.

We’re now apart for a week or so while I work on a writing project in Spain.

We’re texting.

It’s getting a bit saucy.

I like this a lot.

Out of sight is not necessarily out of mind. And absence can, in some cases, make the heart grow fonder.

Having said that, I fully expect this pleasant interlude not to last.

In my world, le plus ça change, le plus c’est la même chose...

AIN'T NO MOUNTAIN HIGH ENOUGH

2010-03-22T14:27:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wake up alone and sometimes I don’t. Last Sunday morning, for instance, I awoke in a single bed in an unfamiliar room surrounded by stuff that wasn’t mine.

Where am I? I wondered as I crawled up through the depths.

I went to the window and peeked out: a spectacular landscape thrilled my eyes - definitely not my usual view. Instead of the quiet communal gardens of my leafy London neighbourhood, a towering range of snow-capped mountains soared above me, the imposing majesty of Mont Blanc dominating the peaks like a great rock god.

In case you hadn't guessed yet, I was away on a ski trip staying in a beautiful chalet owned by some friends of a friend of mine. For someone who lives alone, waking up to happy clan of noisy people, lots of kids and a large, wet Labrador is a very different experience to that wot I am used to, but one to which I quickly warmed.

It felt like Christmas every morning as a mixed bag of bodies in various stages of undress wandered into the vast, beating heart of the house to help themselves to the copious choice of breakfast: freshly-made apple, carrot, beetroot and ginger juice (thanks Shaun!) hand-frothed cappuccinos, yogurts, cereals, breads, cheeses, jams, chutneys, last night's leftovers. And then we went off skiing. Or didn’t, depending on the weather and our mood.

The toyboy content during this break was rather thin on the ground. There's always the ski instructors, of course, but we all remember The Great Val d’Esire Massacre a couple of years ago, so poignantly documented in TBD2 'The Daily Male'. I decided not to go there again. I chose Megève instead.

Holidays are for kicking back and going with the flow – or in this case, the snow. I didn’t even work ... WELL I COULDN'T, COULD I, BECAUSE I’D LEFT MY LAPTOP ON THE PLANE! Can you believe that - me, whose laptop is an extension of my right hand, forgetting to put it back in my holdall when we landed in Geneva?!

And so it cowered, frightened and alone, under seat 9D, whimpering quietly to itself, wondering whether it had done something terribly wrong until an honest cleaner picked it up and handed it in at the airport's Lost Property where we were reunited on my return.

Although no fresh toyboys were added to my arsenal (the use of this word will no doubt jar with Mr. Is-Good-Good-Enough as he's a Spurs supporter) I did stick a few new irons in the fire. Some of them had marshmallows on the end as I’m rather partial to soft pink squidgy things especially when dipped in rich, dark, melted chocolate.

And apart from cuckoo clocks, fondue, yodelling and charming mountain villages nestling in the crisp white snow, the Swiss do excel in rich, dark, melted chocolate...

HE DUMPED ME!

2010-03-12T06:36:00.000-08:00

He read my last blog, reckoned I was about to dump him and beat me to it! We had a couple of days respite when I kinda missed him - or maybe I just missed 'it' - then we started texting again.

He hasn't asked to see me and I haven't asked to see him. I've been away and really busy but I've no idea what's going on in his head and I'm not sure I really care. I suppose the fact that we're still in touch must indicate something but I'm not sure what. A slower letting go rather than sudden death, perhaps?

I think we got too easy too soon. But is this a fault? I was quite enjoying 'having someone' while certain in the knowledge he wasn't The One. There've been so many Ones over the past years, how will I recognize the next One anyway?!

What I did recognize was the fact that the romance ebbed away fairly quickly. I searched for it behind the sofa and under the bed but I couldn’t find it anywhere... and when he had the nerve to comment that I was ‘as comfortable as a pair of slippers’... Well! Really! What was a girl to do?

Romance is like fresh cream...it has a very short shelf life and goes off once you expose it to the light.

If you ask couples who've been together forever whether they’re still 'romantically' in tune, they may look at you rather quizzically as if they haven’t quite understood the question. It’s probably not something they care to ponder over, for if they did and the answers came back negative, it would open up enough cans of worms to stock a fishing tackle superstore.

Although being in a relationship does have its comfort zones, I never want to reach the point where my emotional life contains no rollercoaster rides, no passion, no drama, no excitement, no thrills and therefore no soaring highs and no crashing lows. All the things to which I am addicted...

It's such a shame that no matter how hard we try to preserve it, that delicious stomach-churning exhilaration that accompanies each new encounter seems to last no longer than a butterfly landing on our shoulder. Perhaps that's why one of my other addictions is 'firsts', because when the conversation dwindles down to a rather plebeian intercourse about the weather, work and what you've had for lunch, it's definitely time to pack up and go home.

So here I am swimming upstream again not sure if I'm headed towards a muddy maelstrom or about to float peacefully on a placid lake. Whichever it is, I shall enjoy the breast stroke as well as the crawl!

Old Romantic or New Romantic doesn't really matter as long as romance is present somewhere.

Off skiing next week so pray I don't break anything unless it's someone's heart.

IS 'GOOD' GOOD ENOUGH?

2010-02-28T14:46:00.000-08:00

I'm still seeing him. I daren't count, but it must be what... seven weeks now? That’s a lifetime in my social world.

Living, as I do, by the 'No Expectations, No Disappointments' diktat, I always expect the next date, or even the next text, to be the last. But this...this... er...relation... – no, let's call it friendship - seems to be going on and on.

You see, we manage to connect on a variety of different levels: intellectually, comedically, nutritionally, religiously, and politically.

You might, however, have noticed that I've left out one very crucial connection in my description of our association: the element about which I am prone to crow, gush and blah on about loudly and explicitly most of the time.

So am I not commenting on it because it's so mind-blowingly-off-the-scale- fantabulastic that I don't want to share it with anyone but him and my "Whoops! they’re-on-the-floor-again" pillows, or am I resisting discussing the subject because frankly, although it's good, it's not quite good enough.

And if you connect on the former levels, how important is the latter? (Carrie Bradshaw moment...)

I walked out of my first marriage because everything was fine except the sex. I rushed into my second marriage because the sex was awesome and therefore unsustainable.

So what is really important in a relationship? A comfortable conglomerate, methinks.

If all you want to do is gnaw each other's flesh off but when you're sated you have nothing much to talk about, that ain't gonna work long-term, is it?

But if you drift towards the boudoir while still deep in conversation, does that mean you don't really fancy each other?

Current Squeeze and I have actually stopped mid-sexual stream to chat about something completely unrelated to the task at hand. Does this means our brains are not fully engaged in whatever our bodies are doing? Or does it mean that we are so homogenized that we can morph between thought and sensation in one seamless move?

For now, I shan’t question it any more. I’ll just enjoy it and go with the flow.

On a totally unrelated matter, I often wonder if I’m having more fun that my daughters. I certainly think I’m having more sex. They’re both married with 2.5 children so they’re hardly likely to be feeling flirty, flighty and fabulous wearing old track suit bottoms with a baby on each hip and a husband who’s turning the house upside down ‘cos he’s lost his keys again.

I, on the other hand, am swanning serenely about my apartment wearing nothing but some pink and black dental floss and a shpritz of Chanel no. 5 behind each ear, sipping champagne from a crystal flute while waiting for my paramour to call.

It wasn’t always like this. I, too, was once a harassed housewife but I paid my dues, survived the tricky years and earned my freedom.

And best of all, I still feel good.

So yes, for now 'good' is definitely good enough.

THE SIX DATE RULE

2010-02-10T16:10:00.000-08:00

A girlfriend once told me - so it must be true - that you should Never Ever sleep with anyone before you’ve dated them at least six times. They’ll think you’re a slut and you’ll never hear from them again.

“Six dates?!” I gulped gargling into my Chardonnay. SIX DATES? That could be Six Weeks? Or Six Months? And if you’re gagging for it, you’ll want to jump him in Six Minutes. And if you’re not, Six Years would still be too soon.

So what is the theory behind this so-called Six Date Rule which, according to Google, doesn’t even exist?

It’s a lure, innit. Treat ‘em mean and all that tosh. Keep ‘em on a promise. Insinuate everything and give away nothing. But can this kind of behaviour not backfire? Blokes do have a rather low attention span and unless they’re extremely keen on buying you endless dinners and getting precious little but a peck and a thank you in return, they may get bored and go looking elsewhere.

From my vast and varied experience, chemistry, unlike photography, does not develop. It’s either there or it isn’t in the first nanosecond of setting eyes on someone. And if chemistry is present, it is human nature and animal instinct to want to explore it further, which usually involves ripping each other’s clothes off a lot sooner than after six dates.

There is, however, the deliciously tantalizing aspect of anticipation. For once you’ve crossed the line, you’ll never enjoy that heady innocent maybe again.

I’m currently engaged in observing the Six Date Rule, more by circumstance than design. Being unable to invite him home due to building works has become a form of self-preservation.

Date 1: Meet for lunch. Check each other out in broad daylight. Tick.

Date 2: Dinner in expensive restaurant. Good conversation. Snog in car. Tick.

Date 3: Cinema and snack after. Longer snog in car. Big Tick.

Date 4: Supper and Scrabble in nearby wine bar. Works nearly finished. Bit of wriggle on the freshly-Hoovered sofa.

Date 5: Theatre and dinner. School night so can’t be late.

Date 6: I’m cooking for him on Valentine’s Night. This might be it...

...AND THE 'MARE GOES ON...

2010-01-29T14:42:00.001-08:00

So because the builder originally mis-measured for the floor tiles, I had to wait an extra two weeks for the additional four boxes to arrive from Italy.

If the floor isn't tiled, the machines can't go in, the units can't be finished if the plinths are not installed, the sink can't be plumbed if the units aren't in place, the electrics can't be done...etc etc.

Yesterday the two week wait was up - Hurrah! - but instead of four boxes arriving as ordered, only three turned up.

My left eye began to twitch.

Remaining calm and controlled, I cancelled and rescheduled the tiler, the grouter, the plumber, the electrician, the carpenters, the cleaner and the carpet man.

The missing box was promised to arrive DHL by noon today. The tiler came in at 7.50 a.m. to get started but when he opened the first of the three boxes which had turned up, he saw that these tiles were 5 mm smaller than the original ones, thereby screwing up the entire layout of the kitchen floor, mismatching the joins etc etc.

My left eye developed a flicker.

Remaining slightly less calm and controlled than before, I phone Nick at the tile shop and he said what I was thinking:

"Fucking cunts the whole lotta them! Can't they get anything right? Whaddya wanna do?"

"I want to stuff my hand down your oesophagus and rip your bollocks up through your throat" I say sweetly.

The tiler then suggested that if he smashed out some of the correctly-sized tiles he'd laid two weeks ago, he could compensate by laying the new ones this way instead of that way and the 5mm differential wouldn't be noticed. But...this would mean he would need another box because of wastage.

I phoned Nick and told him to order me another box to arrive by DHL on Monday at his expense. He laughed.

My left eye was now twitching uncontrollably like Herbert Lom in 'The Pink Panther' every time Clouseau hove into view.

The tiler lays the three boxes and finishes by 11.40 a.m.

"The extra box will be in by noon" I tell him, but of course, even if it is he can't finish today as we're still one box short.

Meanwhile, the decorator has papered the hall with my lovely new green and cream striped wallpaper. He packs up and leaves for the weekend. Admiring the one thing that's gone right, I notice that the stripes go green/cream/green/cream/green/green.

My right eye begins to flinch.

Noon becomes 3.30 as we wait for the missing 1 of 4 to arrive.

The tiler sits on a pile of rubble in the middle of what will one day be my new kitchen listening to loud Ukrainian music on his laptop which he's brought with and plugged into my socket along with his mobile phone, thereby sucking greedily at my personal supply of electricity.

At last, Nick calls to say "They've arrived!"

Just before I leave, the tiler says laconically: "I still don tink ve vill hev enuf."

I reach for the chain saw and slice his head off then realise this is counter-productive, so I glue it back on again. Luckily all these building materials are to hand.

I hare over to Camden to pick the box of tiles up. Nick places them carefully into the boot of my car.

"By the way" he says, "that other box you need...they're out of stock. They've got seconds, though. May or may not match. D'ya want them?"

I stop a passing motorist who looks vaguely foreign and ask if he has any weapons of mass destruction about his person. He hands me a Luger, an Uzi and a box of grenades marked Made in Grenada. I gun Nick down along with a couple of pedestrians then lob a few grenades into the tile shop.

I feel a little better but not much.

As I drive home, I thump into a pothole then over a bump and I hear an almighty crack from my boot.

I drive past my house and on towards the Serpentine. I speed up as I approach the bridge then turn the wheel sharply to the left and crash through the stone balusters plunging the car head first into the murky depths below.

It seemed the better option. Now I don't need a kitchen any more so they can all go fuck themselves.

WENDY'S KITCHEN NIGHTMARES

2010-01-22T15:35:00.000-08:00

I’ve got the builders in. New kitchen. Never mind Ramsay’s kitchen nightmares...what about mine??

It feels like the heart of my home’s being ripped out and thrown into the Magimix. There’s kitchen stuff all over the house. Except in the kitchen. And dust embedded all over the stuff that shouldn’t be where it is because it should be in the kitchen. Except I haven't got one.

In a desperate attempt to bring some sanity and sanitation into my horribly disordered life, I had my cleaner in. What a waste of time that was. All she managed to do was shift the dust around from one place to another.

And the bathroom! Don’t even mention the bathroom. What is it with men? Wee-wee. Bowl. What part of that do they not understand? Thank God for the ensuite.

Last Monday, my toyboy story was featured on 'Inside Out' on BBC1. All the builders watched it. It was nudge nudge wink wink all day Tuesday, never mind getting on with the bloody work.

Then on Wednesday, I had a double page spread in The Sun (not Page 3, you'll be relieved to hear - I'm a little old for that!)

And who reads The Sun? The builders. Even less work got done...

I caught one of them glancing at the back cover of Toyboy Diaries 2.

It says: "In this saucy sequel... Wendy embarks on another eyebrow-raising adventure with a man young enough to be her plumber."

Who was reading this?

The plumber.

N-N-N-N-NINETEEN?

2010-01-15T15:47:00.000-08:00

There is something irresistibly seductive about a 19-year old youth - a firm, fit, fabulous teen teetering on the brink of adulthood. Half boy, half man, he’s like a summer wine: young, fresh, sweet on the palate and very, very heady.

And now that artist and film director, Sam Taylor-Wood and the MP Iris ‘Mrs’ Robinson, have gone public with their affairs, 19 seems to be the optimum age for the toyboy du jour – an accessory at the very zeitgeist of dating fashion.

Before I tell my story, I must ask: what about the boy? Is he the innocent victim of a ‘cougar’ (hate that word!) or is he the manipulator: a savvy kid, confident of his irresistibility, who grabs the opportunity to propel himself from a manky, single mattress onto a luxuriously large, satin-sheeted bed? And all he has to do to maintain that position is perform an act which obsesses him 24/7 anyway, which the older woman will teach him how to perfect.

My seduction by a 19-year old happened on the ski slopes of Switzerland one New Year’s Eve. Suffering from post-divorce stress, I’d taken my 16-year old daughter away on a Christmas break.

As I stepped out onto the balcony of our apartment to admire the view, I heard English voices coming from next door. I leaned over and spotted a young man standing there. ‘Just arrived?’ he asked. ‘I’m Ricky, by the way’ and he stuck out his hand.

Ricky was tall, dark and handsome, staying with his cousins in the adjoining flat. I asked about local restaurants and he suggested we join them for dinner. We had a great evening and all skied together the following day.

I thought Ricky to be about 27, certainly too old for Lily and of no interest to me. The last thing I was needed was another man. A younger one wasn’t even on my radar!

Ricky seemed confident and mature, though and I enjoyed talking to him. One night we all went out to a busy bar. I spotted a pinball machine and decided to play. Ricky sauntered over and asked if I knew how. ‘Not really’ I laughed, ‘but I’ll have a go!’

He came and stood hard up behind me. He put his arms around my waist and covered my hands with his. He began flipping the flippers, jerking me this way and that as the little ball pinged frantically to and fro. I could feel his warm breath on the back of my neck. It made me tingle all over.

I couldn’t work out if he was trying to get off with me, or just vaunting his pinball skills with me as the conduit. He was wearing a thick polo neck, black jeans and an aviator jacket. We were both getting very hot. . .

To be continued . . .

THE RAIN IN SPAIN . . .

2009-12-27T15:13:00.001-08:00

I went on holiday to Spain last Monday. After twelve fun-filled hours at Gatwick I returned home again. Trouble was as I’d left, the builders had moved in and so I got back to a flat filled with dust and destruction.

I had to break into my own bedroom which I’d sealed up against the onslaught only to leave again at 2 a.m. on Wednesday morning to travel back to the airport where the big silver bird finally decided its wheels were able to navigate the two centimetres of fresh slush and so it took to the skies.

When I landed at Malaga, it was raining so hard I thought I’d best rent an ark rather than a car. The thunder and lightning were so severe, I expected G-d’s voice to boom down from on high telling us all The End Was Nigh.

It rained for four days and four nights. I hardly left my apartment. Sunday morning dawned bright and clear just in time for me to return to the airport to collect my children who are now staying with me, effectively ending the holiday that never got started in the first place!

Add to the above the long-awaited translation into Spanish of my first novel for my editorial perusal, and you've got a whole heap of hard work to throw into the equation.

The translator has told the story but removed the spirit with which I am wont to write. She was too lazy to utilise synonyms and so I counted forty-eight uses of the word ‘enormous’ in the text as well as many other repeats, something I always try very hard not to do. What about ‘big, great, large, massive, colossal, huge, monumental, gynormous, humungous'?

Consequently, I am now obliged to go through the book word for word to ensure it sounds right. Luckily - or not - I speak Spanish and my sister has helped. Had it been in Swedish, it would have gone to the publishers as an ‘enormous’ly bad edit and I’d never have known. . .

The ‘suitable’ older man I spoke about recently has blotted his copybook so many times that his days are seriously numbered.

What is his crime? I hear you ask. Being way too keen, I hasten to answer.

His texting, literally morning, noon and night is driving me nuts and boring me to tears. I’ve resorted to being rude in return – no actually, I’m being honest:

He texted to say he’d been to the gym and now had the body of a 20-year old.

I replied that I actually did have the body (and the head) of a 20-year old tied to my bed in London awaiting my return. That’s one way of holding onto your youth!

As for Mr. Suitable . . . the meaner I am, the keener he becomes!

Why is it always the troggy ones who want you truly, madly and deeply?

NOW I'M IN TROUBLE . . .

2009-12-13T16:25:00.000-08:00

I can actually feel my late mother pushing me towards him. I can actually see my girlfriends nodding their heads enthusiastically and giving me the thumbs-up. I can actually hear my children sighing with relief and saying: “About time – thank God she’s finally come to her senses!”

And yet . . . and yet . . . I don’t know, I just don’t know. You see . . . the problem is . . . (don’t all faint at once!) I’ve. Met. A. Suitable. Man.

What’s suitable? I hear you ask.

He’s the right class, status, religion and demographic.
A bit short but taller than me.
Not bad looking.
Good head of hair.
Decent teeth from what I could see.
Gentlemanly, as in opening doors and walking on the side of the road the carriages splash mud over.
Well turned-out and presentable.
Nice car.
Booked a great restaurant for lunch.
Interesting enough to talk to.
Recently widowed so very different to a divorcé.
Didn’t hog the conversation boasting about his past achievements and general prowess.
Very keen to see me again asap.

So what’s the problem? I hear you ask again.

The problem is that I’m not yet ‘half way sensible’. Because if I was ‘half way sensible’, I’d leap on him like a hungry lion and cling to him till death do us part. Because, as I understand it, in the eyes of society, at 63¾, with probably no more than ten good years left, I should be looking to settle down with someone with whom I can enjoy the twilight of my life and go gentle into that good night.

Bollocks! says I. As long as I’m still getting messages on toyboywarehouse. com from 21-year olds (yes! 5 minutes ago!) saying I’m hot and gorgeous and when can we meet for a drink? why on earth would I want to hang up my boots and settle down with a 63-year old?

This is not a trick question, but I could really use some good advice.

Anyone?

MEDIA WHORE? MOI?

2009-12-06T15:23:00.000-08:00

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. . .

ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE...

2009-11-29T14:51:00.000-08:00

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 . . .

HAVANA WONDERFUL TIME...

2009-11-20T01:43:00.000-08:00

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!

THE GREATEST LOVE OF ALL

2009-11-04T14:47:00.000-08:00

“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!

GRIEF ENCOUNTER...

2009-10-25T11:57:00.000-07:00

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.

TALKING TURKEY

2009-10-13T06:02:00.000-07:00

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.

SATURDAY NIGHT...

2009-09-19T14:40:00.000-07:00

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...

OH ME OF LITTLE FAITH!

2009-09-05T15:41:00.000-07:00

Well not only did he NOT cancel, he arrived with all guns blazing... or at least the Big Gun that mattered. I was ambivalent about how to handle this. Does one slide between the sheets with ex-lovers who've become friends just because one of you is horny? I guess it depends on the amount of alcohol consumed and I was stone cold sober at the time.

It did, however, put to rest something that had been bothering me since the last visit from Beautiful Cherokee. On that occasion, we talked for five hours and then he went home. Much as I enjoyed the social intercourse, his departure left me slightly miffed. I was saddened to think he no longer fancied me. By way of explanation, however, he told me that he had grown to like and respect me so much, it didn't seemed appropriate to have sex any more! Shucks! Does one not have sex with people one likes and respects?

As of today, I am the mother of a 40-year old. How in hell that happened, G-d only knows - I remember giving birth to her like it was yesterday. I've long since stopped worrying about numbers though, and I no longer lie about my age and the ages of my children. It's all out there, loud and proud.

We had a fabulous party,and she ended the day bedecked with new diamonds - a pendant from her husband, a ring from me and a bracelet from her father. My 11-year old granddaughter Tatiana sang 'Hotel California' well worthy of Simon Cowell's approval and we all joined in the line "...we haven't had that spirit here since 1969..." because that was the year of the birthday girl's birth.

The only thing she found disconcerting was the fact that when her newborn third daughter Xenia celebrates her 40th birthday, she will be 80! And I'll be 103! Or dead!

For the next two weeks, I shall be in Andalucia immersed in writing my second novel - working title: The One and Lonely.

I have a showbiz wedding in Marbella to attend in between. If it's worth blogging about, I'll let you know.

ENTERTAINMENT OVERLOAD!

2009-08-30T03:29:00.000-07:00

A full week at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival produced such a glut of comedy, theatre, culture and various other weird and wonderful forms of performance art that I felt the need to lie down in a darkened room. This activity obviously could not be done alone...

One of my sometime toyboys is now a stand-up comedian and was appearing at the Fest. On the comedy front, whenever this particular gentleman was upstanding before me, I tried not to laugh. He is incredibly well blessed. Gasp? Yes. Guffaw? Noooo.

Although I was unable to catch his show due to a clash of agendas, we did meet late one night for drinks. Our physical relationship dwindled into friendship a while ago as he had a steady girlfriend at the time. He was also working the clubs from Land's End to John O'Groats. Although it was suggested, I don't do matinees with attached men... well not that particular one at any rate...

However, with the heady adrenaline rush produced by great reviews in the Edinburgh press, he suddenly turned up the heat on me again. This resulted in a rather public snog in the shadow of the Udderbelly - a giant, purple, blow-up cow used as a venue at the Fringe.

That old feeling flared at once but I was sharing a hotel room with my sister and he was gigging nightly, so our romantic reunion has had to delayed. I'm a sucker for anticipation. We have a date for Thursday. My instinct tells me he's going to cancel. I think when he comes back down to earth and London, he may feel differently. Insecurity is alive and well and living in Maida Vale!

Post Edinburgh, I managed to slip the Lesbian Love Slut event into my calendar and very nice it was too. It involved an old lover (he's 39 now!)I see infrequently who doesn't mind wearing lipstick and silky lingerie. This produces an erotically androgynous character who is ALL MALE in every other respect, while fulfilling some of my darker urges in others. I may need to explore this further at some point...

On a more sombre note, two of my girlfriends have cancer and are undergoing chemotherapy. My heart, thoughts and prayers go out to them. There but for the grace of God go any of us. They are brave determined women but one has confessed to being terrified, especially on her own at night...

I wish them courage and renewed good health. And I urge you all to CARPE DIEM. You never know what's around the corner and that is why I seize my days (and nights) and squeeze out their juices for all they are worth.

YOU NEVER FORGET YOUR FIRST LOVE . . .

2009-08-08T15:30:00.000-07:00

How do you explain to someone you haven’t seen for 44 years the depth of the footprint they left on your life? Especially when you only have 15 seconds in which to do it and they haven’t the faintest idea who you are!

This happened to me last week - but first let me take you back to 1965. . .

The place is Marbella, a sleepy fishing village on the southern coast of Spain. An 18-year old English girl is taking an extended vacation from her boring job, capricious friends and controlling parents.

She escaped to Spain because when she was nine, on holiday in Alicante, the girl had an epiphany: she was taken to see her first bullfight. Mesmerized by the passion, drama and raw courage of a man prepared to place himself - unprotected save for a piece of cloth - in front of a wild and raging bull, she became fascinated by the savage beauty of this ancient art.

Over the next few years, the girl researched the culture, studied the language and learned to dance flamenco. She longed to spend more time in her beloved Spain, her greatest wish being to see more bullfights.

Her grandmother muttered: Be careful what you wish for . . .

The girl enjoyed her first few weeks away, but money became tight so she began to look around for something to do. Sitting at a sidewalk café one afternoon, she got talking to an American - a journalist. He’d been commissioned to write the life story of the world’s most famous bullfighter, Manuel Benítez El Cordobés! He needed assistant and interpreter! The girl could not believe her luck! They set off next morning for Córdoba.

I was that girl and over the next few months, I travelled the length and breadth of the Iberian Peninsula as part of the matador’s entourage. Manolo, as he was known, was the craziest, most charismatic person on the planet. He’d begun life as a feral, gypsy orphan and had risen, through sheer bravery and determination to global stardom – the quintessential ‘rags to riches’ story.

The title of the book “. . . or I’ll Dress You in Mourning” was taken from what Manolo said to his sister on the morning of his first fight.

“Tonight, Angelita,” he told the fretting woman as he left the hovel where they lived, “I will buy you a house or I’ll dress you in mourning. . . ”
Angelita got her house and then some.

Although initially banned in Spain due to its references to the Civil War and supposed disrespect for the dictator, Franco, it went on to become an international best seller.

The problem with Manolo was you couldn’t just take him or leave him – you had to get involved. Women threw themselves at him wherever we went. Young, old, married, single - he was The One they all wanted to know.

Even nuns in convents campaigned to have TVs installed so they could watch their hero fight, twitching no doubt later in the privacy of their cells in places man had never been. He was James Dean, Elvis, John Lennon and Mick Jagger all rolled into one. Except he had an added twist: he faced death every afternoon.

Although I found him magnetically attractive, I tried to keep my feelings hidden. I was, after all, working - doing a serious research job. He wasn’t an easy man to resist, but resist him I did. . .

Over time, we became rather attached. He was relaxed and comfortable in my company – unlike the others, I wasn’t after him for what I could get.

On rest days, we’d spend lazy afternoons at his ranch, hanging out with his friends and family, sharing al fresco lunches and flamenco-fuelled dinners or buzzing around Andalucía in his Piper Aztec plane.

On fight days, we’d travel across country in his chauffeur-driven limo, him asleep with his head in my lap, me tenderly stroking his forehead, my heart melting with love as I kept vigil on the long roads through the night.

The international press soon picked up our story. They called him ‘the English girl Wendy’s personal Peter Pan’ and wrote that ‘El Cordobés had a British fiancée and was learning the language of Shakespeare’! In truth, his parish priest travelled alongside us teaching him to read and write. A scholar of the Bard he was not!

One afternoon, in the middle of his hectic season, he dedicated the life of his noble bull to me - a high accolade and display of affection of a very public nature. The animal, however, did not share this affection and tossed him mercilessly until his pants were ripped to shreds, his buttocks exposed for all to see.

He raked his fingers through his floppy hair and changed hurriedly into a pair of jeans. Then he went back on the sand and showed that toro who was boss. He displayed such valour and artistry that he was awarded the trophy of an ear.

To further compliment his dedication to me, he lobbed the severed appendage straight into my outstretched hands. As I caught it in a clap, warm blood splattered all over my dress. Boy! Was I proud of that! I never washed it off and later, if anyone asked me where the stains came from, I bloody well told them!

That night, persuasion overcame propriety and I allowed him the sword thrust he had so often sought. . .

In October, the Spanish bullfight season terminated and the toreros prepared to fly south for the winter, to Mexico and Latin America. I was invited to accompany them but my father wouldn’t let me. And so the dream ended and I went sadly home. I packed up my photographs, press cuttings, cine films, diaries, letters and bull’s ear and stored them away in my memory bank.

Over the next four decades, I revisited those memories many, many times. I also got married and divorced twice, had two daughters and now have four grandchildren. Manolo also married and is the father of five children.

I continued to visit Spain two or three times a year, but I never saw him again. I became an antique dealer and then a writer. Last year I wrote my first novel, Blood On The Sand, based on our story or at least the beginning of it. . .

And then I heard he was to receive a Lifetime Achievement Award to be presented to him in Marbella. A grand occasion was planned: a midnight bullfight by candle light with flamenco music instead of a brass band showcasing three of Spain’s top matadors. I didn’t hesitate. I booked my flight . . .

I arrived at the bullring with my sister well ahead of time, flustered and nervous. I was no longer 19 yet I still felt it inside! A limo drew up. I could see him through the window. Without hesitation, I pounced like a panther and explained - in the 15 seconds I had available before the press descended - exactly who I was.

He smiled broadly and took my hands in his. He looked confused, bemused, amused.

“You’re still so pretty!” he enthused kissing me warmly on both cheeks. At 63, I could have been a wizened old crone. . .

I showed him some of our old photos. He beamed and put his arm around me. My sister took a picture. My heart soared. I was right back in 1965. Maybe I should have defied my father and gone away with him after all. Who knows how my life may have turned out?

After the bullfight and award ceremony, I managed to snatch another few moments just as he was leaving.

“We have so much to talk about!” I told him. “Talk to me! Talk!” he managed before another microphone and TV camera were shoved in his face.

He did his interview then the chauffeur floored the pedal and off they sped - out of my life for a second time.

I’m sure I’ll see him again, though. I’ll make damn certain of it. And it won’t be another 44 years this time!

HEY BABY!

2009-07-24T05:01:00.000-07:00

I’m afraid the Lesbian Love Slut affair had to be postponed due to inclement weather and another event which unsurprisingly took precedence. LLS will be rescheduled and reported on in due course but for now here’s what happened this week written live and direct from my dining-room table:

"I’m writing this with shaking hands in between devouring a large bar of Green ‘n Black Cherry Chocolate and waiting for the phone to ring.

It’s been a rather surreal day which began at 8 in the morning when my elder daughter called to tell me that she had, at last, gone into labour. The baby was only a day overdue but it’s been a long nine months and as it’s her third, we all expected the birth to happen quickly.

It is now 9.15 in the evening and I’m still waiting for news. She’s texted me intermittently throughout the day with details of epidurals being administered and waters being broken, but she requested that our large extended family do not descend on the hospital until she’s all done and dusted and her other children have had the first sighting of their little sibling.

I live the closest to the hospital and it’s been very frustrating. All I want to do is get in the car and go down there, either to keep her and her husband company or at least pace up down expectantly outside the delivery room. But they like their privacy and I must respect that.

My two older granddaughters, Tatiana and Normandie, are with their other grandmother and my grandson, Noah, is with his mum also awaiting news.

We don’t as yet know what the sex of the new baby will be. They’d quite like a boy for a change but as long as it has ten fingers and toes and is healthy inside and out, it doesn’t really matter.

9.40 p.m. A call comes through to say 'It Won’t Be Long Now!' Enough of this procrastinating, I think, so I leap in the car, arrive at the hospital in record time and burst in through the double doors. I’m sent straight up to the fourth floor and there is my daughter, halfway between birth and afterbirth, looking calm, serene and very happy.

In a crib by her side is a tiny head covered in a dark mop of black hair.

‘You have another granddaughter!’ she says with no trace of disappointment, just joy and relief that the little mite has arrived safely.

Weighing in at 4.04 kgs or 8lbs. 9 ozs. in old money, the baby is to be called Xenia Minnie! My mother was called Zena, another grandmother was Minnie. Mouse may become her nickname but not from me!

So no toyboy stories this week I’m afraid, though I do have a tea date with one tomorrow. I’ve been washing, shopping, cooking, cleaning and generally performing my maternal duties like the good girl I sometimes am...

Some r ‘n r would be most welcome, but it’ll have to wait till next week...

A WEEK IN THE LIFE OF...

2009-07-14T14:15:00.000-07:00

After the celebratory night of passione with The Smouldering One - aged 29 - I threw myself headlong into a hot date with a 70-year old.

This had all the similarities of trying to extract a bottle of fine wine from a handful of dry leaves. He is, however, an Old Friend and as he always shows an interest in my work, I gave him a copy of TB2 - The Daily Male.

He called me the next evening having read about a third of it.

"I need to have a serious talk with you, face to face, not over the phone," he said in deeply sombre tones, like a doctor who was about to tell me I have a terminal illness. "I think I've worked out what your problem is..."

Ooh eck! Do I want to hear this? No! Not if it's negative and not if it's critical. And definitely not if he's going to try to convince me that settling down for a life of dull domesticity with a man old enough to be my husband is the answer to all my prayers!

On Monday, I looked after my 15-month old grandson which is always an absolute joy and the best little boy toy a girl could have.

On Tuesday I guested on a chat show on Radio Coventry and Warwickshire. Yes! It finally happened! Today Coventry, tomorrow Ze Vurld! but the lowlight of my week came on Friday evening, when a girlfriend and I went to a double bill at the Arts Theatre.

The first half was called F**king Men, a well-written, well-acted play about gay love. So far so interesting. The second half, however, was called Naked Boys Dancing (or it may have been Singing...)

Now the clue should have been in the title but imagine our surprise when halfway through the penultimate number, we were presented with six limp dicks. Never mind too much information - this was simply too much vegetation. One limp dick is bad enough, but six? Enough to turn a girl vegetarian!

Unfortunately, my friend and I were bang in the middle of the second row which made it rather hard to get out. This was the only part of the performance that was rather hard. It emphasized the expression 'less is more'. They should have kept their kegs on, or a subtle towel at least...

When we eventually got home, I actually felt like gargling with Parazone. I'm not sure why, but somehow, having all that male genitalia shoved in my face was quite a turnoff...which may sound strange coming from me!

Luckily I was turned right back on again by a further date with The Smouldering One. I'm still not sure if I actually like him. He may have a Phd in Lovemaking but his personality is edgy and confrontational.

I might not see him again. But on the other hand...

Next week's blog will be entitled Lesbian Love Slut - you'll have to read it to find out why!

THE DAILY MAUL!

2009-07-09T03:31:00.000-07:00

Check out today's FEMAIL online for a double page spread on yours truly...

My words and some of the facts are slightly distorted. After a 2 hour interview and 3 hour photoshoot, they chose to dumb down most of what I said and print a 2 year old photo but hey!

The ONLINE COMMENTS are the most interesting part...I'm reeling from the worldwide 'interest' or denigration of my lifestyle choices!

COLOUR ME HAPPY!

2009-07-05T07:14:00.001-07:00

This weekend I experienced one of those magical moments when the stars are aligned in such perfect symmetry that one is possessed with a feeling of such utter euphoria, one just wants to capture it and hold onto it forever.

And for once, dear readers, it had nothing to do with a man!

I was out on a date with ARP, the Arrogant Rugby Player who sent me the pretty Myla lingerie some two years ago. He's been living in New York ever since but is now back in Blighty and invited me, rather belatedly, out for dinner.

We arrived at l'Atelier de Joel Robuchon a mere 15 minutes late - that's two years and 15 minutes if you're being pernickity, which I am. (Well worth the wait, incidentally. HISTORIC food - absolutely tip-top tickle your tastebuds tremendous).

The evening was going deliciously when, at about 10.30 p.m. my text went off. One of the children no doubt, I thought, as I grappled discreetly in my handbag and had a sneak peek. But no...it wasn't one of the children. It was my agent! At 10.30 p.m. on a Friday night? This had better be good!

The text read: Sorry so late but if you can, please call me. News!

I apologized to ARP and with a flutter in my heart and a prayer on my lips, I stepped onto the pavement. The paparazzi were out in force, waiting to snap some poor unsuspecting C-listers emerging from The Ivy just up the road.

I returned the call, my voice eager with anticipation. If this was what I hoped it would be, I would be soon be dancing in the streets. Perhaps the paps wouldn't notice.

The News! was that after a whole year of waiting and hoping (because my agent thought it best not to advance it until Toyboy Diaries 2 was on the shelves) I heard that my first novel BLOOD ON THE SAND, a project very close to my heart, has been accepted for publication!

Euphoric does not begin to cover it!!! I thanked my agent profusely and dashed back into the restaurant. I flung my arms around ARP's neck, swigged down the remains of my Bellini and ordered another.

And then that feeling overtook me, powering through me like electricity, sparking up every crevice of my being and igniting my very viscera with pure, unadulterated joy. I still can't believe it! I'm going to be a novelist! A lifelong ambition is about to come true!

The evening ended back at mine with me beating ARP roundly at Scrabble.

On Saturday night, The Smouldering One came over and we took a picnic to the park. He continued to 'smoulder' until the early hours of the following morning when we finally got some sleep.

I still haven't managed to wipe the smile off my face. It must be very annoying to anyone who hasn't had such great news and for that, I can only apologize...but I hope to continue entertaining you with fiction for a long, long time to come.

CRACKING REVIEW!

2009-06-30T03:26:00.000-07:00

Whoever gave me that fabulous review on Amazon - THANK YOU!!! So glad you enjoyed the book. Very gratifying to know - I appreciate the time and effort to review it, so thanks again. If you read this, reveal yourself, so I can thank you personally.

x

LET'S GO ROUND AGAIN!

2009-06-28T10:13:00.001-07:00

The publicity machine cranked into action with a double page spread in the Daily Express and an appearance on a late night chat show on Radio 5 Live on Saturday evening.

There are several interviews lined up on national radio and in a variety of magazines. I shall know I've finally "arrived" when I'm invited to fall off a cliff into a snake pit wearing nothing but a smile and a pair of stilettos in a new TV reality show called I'm a Nobody - Get Me Into There!

Socially, the hot and hopeful date last Saturday night with The Poetic One ended, not with a full English breakfast on Sunday morning, but a skulking off at dawn with his tail between his legs...

I cannot elaborate for fear of hurting his feelings but after such a long and promising build-up, had I been a virgin (I said Had I!!) I'd still have been intacta the following day...

Friday dawns and with it a date with someone I've have my eye on for quite some time. Having spent the afternoon in a field watching my grandchildren running, jumping, and falling over during the egg, spoon and sack races of their school Sports Day, I meet up with The Smouldering One late in the evening.

A wonderfully balmy night in Little Venice provides the perfect backdrop for our slow, sensual meander along the canals, stopping at intervals to have a drink and then get thrown out of a selection of local hosteleries - not because we were behaving badly, but because of their proximity to residential properties which means they are not granted outside licences beyond 10 or 11 p.m.

And so we find ourselves, far too early into our first date, not knowing where to go next. Loath to invite him home lest he produce an axe and chop me to pieces, we cruise along in my new convertible (yes! I was showing off!) and do a recce round the 'hood looking for a late night bar in which to continue our conversation. Having found nowhere suitable, I question my instinct which answers 'Go on, he seems OK.'

We sit out on my terrace drinking scotch on the rocks and listening to Cuban music until 1.45 a.m. I talk too much. Too much about my past. I should have said I was only interested in the present and the future. Remind me to remember this. No man no matter his age (this one will be 40 - one day...in about 12 years' time!) wants to hear about some older woman's bad marriages and worse divorces.

I fancy the guy but I'm not sure if it's reciprocated. Like me, he's an Aquarian. I recognize some of my worst traits. He's blunt and confrontational. He spent a lot of time staring at me with a deep intensity I couldn't read. It made me cross my arms protectively across my chest in a very bad demonstration of 'feeling threatened' body language. He's definitely not a Yes man. I quite like Yes men. They're not such hard work. But they're not as interesting either.

At around 2 a.m. I said I was tired and like a gentleman, he left. But not before teasing my mouth very slowly with his and grazing his lips against mine like a promise.

I stood my ground. Refused to react...but if he comes my way again, arms folded across my chest won't be enough. I better buy a suit of armour.

IF YOU WISH TO PRE-ORDER 'THE DAILY MALE'...

2009-06-18T07:56:00.000-07:00

...you can do so on Amazon but you must type in:

THE TOYBOY DIARIES 2 and it will come up. 'The Daily Male' is the sub-heading and doesn't feature if that's all you enter.

Thanks everyone!!

Hope you enjoy it xx

THE EXPIRY DATE OF SAUSAGES

2009-06-13T16:55:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday, I had my third date with TenderLovingBoy (TLB). We went to the Toyboy Warehouse party together and I was proud to have him on my arm. He arrived to meet me with a bouquet of long-stemmed white roses stylishly bound round with raffia. So thoughtful, so romantic... it's been way too long since I've been treated like that. No wonder I'm behaving strangely!

TLB looked after me all evening like Kevin Costner in 'The Bodyguard'. Watchful, protective, bringing me food and drinks, attending to my every need, taking a step back when people came to talk to me and generally acting out my fantasy of a perfect gentleman on the outside, smouldering with desire within. I enjoyed the experience so much, I decided to prolong our 'courtship' and relish the subtle anticipation of what is inevitably to come. Bizarre as it may seem, I actually like him enough NOT to jump into bed with him.

Our previous date, the night prior to the party, found us wrapped around each other in the back row of the movies. Our kisses ignited incendiaries in all the relevant parts of my viscera. It would have been oh so easy to take him home and let him finish what he started, but did I? No. Why? Respect.

AM I READING THE RIGHT BLOG? I hear you ask.

Yes, friends, you are - this is still me, but it's the New Improved Me.

Although it's clear we fancy the pants off each other, those pants are staying firmly put a little longer than usual. After a deep and meaningful discussion over a Mojito or three, I suggested (and he reluctantly agreed) to adhere to the 'Six Date Rule' because after all: what's the rush?

'Ahh!' says TLB as the significance of my suggestion sinks in. 'You mean the 'pleasure delay'?'

'Precisely' says I, thinking how fortuitous it was that I had resisted buying the ingredients for a full English breakfast as it would have been far too tempting to invite him back to taste the hostess and her wares, especially if the sausages had had an early sell-by date.

I've been far too guilty in my time of rushing through relationships and out the other side but this feels calmer somehow. Less hurried. More controlled and dare I say it...sensible. (OK, OK - he's only 27...it ain't ever going to be 'sensible'...)

And so I retired alone and lay huddled on the right of the bed, the left side as empty as a beach in winter. I awoke feeling rather virtuous - a feeling I'm not exactly familiar with.

Sailing through the following day on a flotilla of breathless expectation, I was smacked in the face by a wet haddock when he texted, later that evening, to finish with me! Said he was already 'in too deep'. Knew exactly where it was headed. Didn't want to get hurt. Needed to protect himself. Didn't really trust me.

It reminded me horribly of CC, except this time, I was determined to reel him back in. This one was not going to get away that easily, I thought. Not as long as I was female and had a pulse.

Through a softly, softly approach, I convinced him to meet up again. He backtracked his negation pretty quickly. We have a date arranged for Saturday. I'm cautiously optimistic that we'll make it. It'll be the fouth date not the sixth but rules were made to be broken and who cares anyway? I like him. He's different. Dark and complex and he writes me poetry.

I wonder what poetry we'll make when dusk falls on the city this weekend...

Shame it's coming up to the shortest night...

I've a feeling we'll need a longish one...

GONE TO PRESS!!

2009-06-05T15:00:00.001-07:00

Unbelievably, 'The Toyboy Diaries 2 - The Daily Male' actually went to press today!

I say 'unbelievably' because the first final proof had my name spelled wrong, the second final proof had forgotten to insert my dedication, the third final proof had a fair number of typos and the fourth FINAL PROOF spelled the bloody title wrong: Mail instead of Male! Good job I was alert enough to notice all these things - an author's work is never done...

I celebrated tonight with a toyboy date. Of course! How else? Darling chap, tall, good-looking, fair hair, smooth skin, a true gent and very young...dare I say it - too young at 27 even for me?

We went for a couple of drinks then I deposited him back at the station from whence he'd emerged and came straight home. Hmmm! I thought to myself as I climbed my stairs alone. Growing old or simply growing up? There was a time I'd never have let a live one get away but sometimes it's more powerful to say No than to say Yes. And it keeps the momentum going and I'm sure I'll see him again which I may not have, had I 'succumbed' on the first date.

So now I wait for the first actual copy of the new book to land on my mat so I can hold it in my hand and see that it's real.

Next project is my first novel 'Blood on the Sand' - the story of a young girl who goes to Spain in the 1960s and falls in love with a bullfighter (Yup! Me again, I'm afraid!) currently being looked at by a Madrid-based literary agent.

On Monday, I'll get on with my second novel 'West from Odessa' a book I'd like to read but I have to write first.

Writing a book is like giving birth...very creative, very exciting - but first my elder daughter is going to do that, hopefully in six weeks time, and present me with my fourth grandchild! How blessed am I?!

Jackie K meet Marvin Gay!

2009-05-30T00:13:00.000-07:00

FRY ME A BABOON!

2009-05-24T10:00:00.000-07:00

It’s Sunday morning and I’m sitting in my bedroom in Spain, looking out over the calm blue Mediterranean and giggling. No one is tickling me - no dog or cat, grandchild or lover - though my friend, Rich-ard is asleep in the other room. He is, sadly, neither Rich nor ‘ard – but a good friend is ‘arder to find than a rich one, so we leave it at that.

The reason I’m giggling is something that happened at last night’s party - my niece’s 40th. She was born in 1969 so the theme was The Sixties.

While searching for the perfect get-up, I contemplated wearing a t-shirt with the words ‘I’m in My Sixties!’ printed on it. Then, while hunting through the vintage rails of Camden and Portobello, I found the perfect dress: an A-line silver number complete with couture label, of the type worn by Jackie Kennedy or Twiggy way back when. £15 secured it.

I chopped another few inches off the hem and teamed it with white tights and a pair of Aunty Betty’s pointy-toe sling back shoes from Dolcis still lurking at the back of her wardrobe. Genuine 1965!

Add a beehive hairdo, Dusty make-up, false eyelashes which flapped like crows’ wings, white lipstick et voilà! It’s my old self come back to haunt me 40 years on! All that was missing was a Beatle, but the one I loved way back then is currently crooning with the angels. Yeah. . . yeah. . . yeah. . .

So there we are at the party – among the mini-skirts and flower powered hippies - when the mike crackles and silence is requested. Standing before us is a man in a suit about to burst into song. This is my sister’s surprise to her daughter: a ‘Frank Sinatra’ impressionist who proceeds, with the help of a scratchy playback, to murder most of Ol’ Blue Eyes’ greatest hits.

"Fry me a baboon and let me pray among the cars
Let me know what wife is ripe on Blue Peter and Mars. . ."

Poor guy was Mexican and had obviously learned the words phonetically! It was clear he had no idea what he was singing about – and no voice to speak of either. We all looked at each other and burst into fits of laughter. At the price she paid, my poor sister had been done up like a kipper.

‘See if he can sing Far Far Away’ I told her.

After he’d finished the Sinatra set, he came back on as Elvis. Well, let’s just say he’d changed into a pair of white shoes.

"If you lookee for trouble, uh-huh, uh-huh, you come a right place
If you lookee for trouble, uh-huh, uh-huh, you come right in my face. . ."

Yes. Well. Whatever. . .!

The party went with a swing but if you’re ever going to book a Sing-a-Like in Sunny Spain, make sure you check him out first.

BLIND DATES

2009-05-15T15:15:00.000-07:00

In between my workaday slog of trying insidiously to sneak back in all the bits my editor is cutting out of The Daily Male (will it never end...!) I've entertained myself socially with a few blind dates, totally blind, in fact, as I never actually got to see any of the guys I’d arranged to meet!

The first was the darling 20-something, effusive in his admiration, showering me with compliments, begging for an hour of my time, a minute, a second even - just for the pleasure and privilege of merely setting eyes on me.

He assured me of his utmost devotion, enthusing about how he would go to the ends of the earth simply to sniff the air I’d just exhaled! Whooaah! It’s not every day you get bombarded like that, so, overwhelmed with the force of his affection, we made a date.

The great day dawned and I texted to confirm. No reply. I never leave home without re-confirming a confirmation. You know how vacant toyboys can be... Most times I don’t leave home until they’ve called to say they’re actually waiting at the designated venue, but did he reply to my text? Did he answer my email? Did he have any intention of actually turning up? Answers on a pinhead, please.

Adding ten years to the equation, the second ‘applicant’ was a 30-something Oxbridge graduate, a professional man working away but keen to meet up the minute he got back. We emailed for a few weeks, our friendship growing with every message. He was polite, articulate, charming and well-mannered - everything I like in a man. The scent of promise was in the air.

On the morning of our first date, a Jekyll and Hyde transformation took place. He began texting vulgarity – detailing everything he was going to do to me the minute he walked in my door. I hadn’t invited him through my door. Why would I? We hadn’t yet met and I needed to check him out in person first.

And so he blew it. If only he could have remained a gentleman a little longer...maybe the porn would have taken place, but on my agenda not his!

As the premise of The Daily Male is my attempt to find a more suitable suitor, I decided to creep up the age ladder by another ten years. The 40-something was not exactly a toyboy, but seemed interesting nevertheless. And probably, or so I thought, somewhat less of a brain fuck.

He generously invited me to the theatre in a complicated building which I knew but he didn’t. I explained exactly where I would be waiting and arrived at the appointed time. No sign of him. I went up and down and round and round until the first and second bells had been rung.

At 7.29 p.m., with the audience in their seats and my date nowhere to be found, I reviewed my options: I could either slink off home and sulk for the rest of the night or I could buy a ticket and go in. I chose the latter. Very brave and grown-up, I thought - especially after the disappointment of having been stood up.

On returning to my flat, there was a message from him: ‘ You missed a great play’.

'No I didn’t! You missed some great company!' I shot back. And then he phoned.

‘I waited by the book shop,’ he explained. ‘You had to come that way from the station.’

‘I waited at the first floor box office’ I answered, ‘exactly where I said I would be because I drove straight into the underground car park and went up in the lift. Who ever mentioned anything about the book shop anyway, and why didn’t you call me to tell me where you were?’

And then he uttered the immortal line: ‘I was out of credit.’

I’m sorry but if you’re over forty and don’t have a mobile contract, then you’re not the man for me!

He has since texted to ask if I'll give him another chance, assuring me that he now has a mobile contract. I'll have to give him another task to do like climbing Everest - see if he'll oblige with that as well.

And as for the 20-something, he came over all apologetic the next day and wants to make another date too.

Frankly, I can't be arsed. Well would you?

BURIED IN MANUSCRIPT

2009-05-01T15:40:00.000-07:00

Hallo. I'm sorry. I'll say that again. Hello.

Which of the above is correct, do you think? I'm darned if I know but my editor has deleted all my 'a's and replaced them with 'e's. Whazzat all about?

The reason I've been off the radar since Easter is as follows: I'm re-writing the edit of the edit of the edit of The Toyboy Diaries II - The Daily Male. I thought I'd finished this book about a year ago, but when my publishers got hold of it, they told me I had not.

This is a blog, sez they, and a blog doth not a book make. And so I've had to go over every single word of it - 82,786 words in fact - to create a proper story with a narrative arc of no more than 70,000 words. The deadline was last week. I'm only halfway through and I'm suffering - oh boy! am I suffering...

It's going to be good though. By wielding her iron fist inside a velvet glove, my editor has encouraged me to craft my story in a different more readable way.

The cover is ready. The shelf-space in the shops has been booked. All that remains is for me to finish subtly honing the text.

And then I can start to tell you my other little stories again...like the one about the toyboy who came for Sunday lunch and stayed till Tuesday.

And the 44-year old I made a date with because I'm trying to be good and climb the age ladder.

And the wagon I'll doubtless fall off when that doesn't work out...

BRIGHTON ROCKS!

2009-04-17T15:48:00.000-07:00

I went to Brighton last Sunday with a male mate. Took the train. Much more relaxing. He could read the papers, and I could do some work. Or so I thought.

The town itself is a bit sleazy, like a rundown suburb...London-on-Sea. We walked from the wonderfully ghastly Palace Pier - how did they manage to fit everything that's tacky about Britain onto one strip of wood and metal and point it at France? - all the way to genteel Hove, where lonely, maiden aunts live out their days listening to the waves wash over the beach, the stones rattling against each other like bad memories.

On the train home, we sat opposite a beautiful young couple. As we pulled out of the station, I asked my friend what he was planning for Sunday evening.

"I'm going to the Torture Garden" he joked.

The beautiful couple looked at each other then at us and smiled, and for the rest of the journey, they regaled us with details of the World's Greatest Fetish Club where weirdos in creatively-outrageous rubber outfits parade about with their bits hanging out. Fascinating. We agreed to meet them there one evening. I'm wondering how I can adapt the Marigolds 'cos I'm damned if I'm going shopping at House of Harlot.

In complete contrast, I was taken out last night to Harry's Bar, the most delightfully decadent dining experience since Nero's Rome. Everything was perfect - the peach bellinis, the sycophantic staff, the luscious menu and the excellent company.

I managed, with much hilarity, to slip in the story about the failed Viagra purchase in Spain. My host was so charming that not only was I right-royally entertained, I also ended the evening with a couple of little tabs in my handbag for free.

The night of experimentation grows ever closer. And you'll never guess who I'm planning it with...

VERY SEXPENSIVE!

2009-04-04T08:32:00.000-07:00

One of my young chaps and I had discussed the entertainment value of experimenting with Viagra. He, of course, doesn't need it and I've never had to do with it.

They sell it over the counter in Spain so as a little treat, I thought I'd buy us some.

There was a bit of a queue in the pharmacy. An elderly male,a middle-aged woman and young Master Monobrow were serving. As I inched up the line, I prayed I would get either of the first two. Did I? Did I, buffalo!

"Si, senora?" Monobrow asked.

I lowered my voice to little more than a whisper and croaked "Viagra, por favor?"

He looked at me with an expression that said I'll try not to change my expression but I noted pity in his eyes.

"25, 50 and 100 mgs?" he asked in hushed tones.

Bugger! I didn't know it came in soft, medium and hard. I went the middle route and he brought a little box out of a drawer. To give him credit, he kept them concealed in the palm of his hand to spare my blushes.

I wanted to scream: "They're not for me! I don't need them! It's just a joke. My lovers are young and virile and up all night and...and..."

"Cinquenta y tres con noventa, por favor" he requested.

Whaaaat! 53.90 euros? At today's rate? With my reputation? No way, Jose!

I cleared my throat: "Oh. Er. Sorry. I'll er...I'll leave it thank you..." and scuttled away. He shrugged, this time definitely pityingly, probably thinking: Poor Cow! She's not getting any tonight.

I never realized sex was so expensive. What do the poor pensioners do? I hope it's available on the NHS. I'll bring my bus pass next time and see if I can get it free but meanwhile, we'll just have to carry on without the dubious pleasure of fun-enhancing drugs.

I didn't much like JR referring to me as his dealer anyway. Not at my age!

ANDALUCIA LA BELLA

2009-04-02T11:19:00.000-07:00

I'm currently in Andalucia - my second home. On the coast, the sky is blue, the sea is calm, the palm trees are wafting in the breeze, the sunsets ignite the sky with spectacular displays of fiery red hue and the sweet aroma of orange blossom fills the air around the cobbled square. I'm in heaven!

This morning I travelled up to Sevilla and am staying, as I love to do, at the Alfonso XIII Hotel, an exquisitely romantic location from which to explore this jewel of a city.

I'm here to research a passage for my forthcoming novel, a chapter already written which I need to verify. I enter the vast portal of the world's grandest Gothic cathedral and proceed up the aisle to the Altar Mayor.

A Major Event takes place here and I want to make sure I've got the details right. I make a few amendments, climb the 37,952 steps to the top of the clock tower and admire the splendour spread out below. From here I can see La Maestranza - the bullring - which also features significantly in the book.

Fortuitously, my first toyboy lives nearby - fat and forty now - but keen to meet up. He is a sentimental 'friend' and we pass the afternoon together reminiscing about times gone by, marvelling at the fact that we are still in touch 21 years on from our first encounter that heady New Year's Eve in the Sierra Nevada when he seduced me as the clock struck midnight.

Tomorrow it's back to the Costa to continue editing 'Blood on the Sand'. With the mountains to the right and the Med to the left, inspiration abounds...

WILL THE SEXES EVER UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER?

2009-03-26T16:52:00.000-07:00

I've just spent a delightful evening with a recent young lover of mine (now aged 34).

We had quite a hot and ongoing relationship at the end of last year, then he got injured training and couldn't visit for a while. He doesn't live in London but we kept in touch.

We subsequently made a date for tonight. He arrived on time having obviously taken great pride in his appearance. To me he's gorgeous rough, smooth, tidy or unkempt but I appreciated the trouble he'd gone to.

I cooked us a meal then we sat on the sofa playing catch-up, listening to music, and telling each other many intimate stories like we always used to. Five hours passed then he got up to leave.

I was surprised and not a little disappointed. I presumed he would stay. When I gently broached this, he said it hadn't occurred to him that he'd made very early arrangements in the morning but would definitely stay 'next time'.

Question: If a man comes over to spend an evening with a woman who he's slept with in the past and whose company he clearly enjoys, why would he not want to make love to her?

I'm confused. Is he no longer that into me? Did he not want to appear presumptuous since we haven't seen each other for a while? Should I have tried to seduce him though I always prefer the man to make the first move?

Help me here, boys, and give me some honest answers please.

RANDOM STUFF

2009-03-22T16:13:00.000-07:00

A girlfriend of mine - if you can call us Swinging Sixties 'girls' - is convinced we all have A Soulmate. I'm not so sure. The chance of meeting this person in the context of the Big Wide World would be too random and restricting.

She did however think she'd met him a few years ago. They dipped in and out of each other's lives for a while and then he disappeared.

As time went by, she told me she'd never have sex again because all her drive and desire had gone for good. I told her it would only take the right man to fire her up again.

Last night, he came back and proved me right. Yay! You Go Girl!

I'VE MISSED YOU TOO!

2009-03-21T17:09:00.000-07:00

Hallo faithful readers,

I've really missed writing my blog but the finished manuscript of The Toyboy Diaries Part II - THE DAILY MALE - is with the publishers, due out in June, so I had to stop blogging in order to keep you in suspense (and myself in suspenders...)

If you wish to listen to me speaking about the life of a toyboy-loving Noughties glam-ma log onto bbc.co.uk/saturday live and click on Listen Again. My bit is about a third of the way through the programme.

Thanks again for reading and I'll pick this up again soon, I hope.

Best wishes to you all and I appreciate all your messages of support and encouragement.

Wendy x

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

2009-02-06T11:03:00.000-08:00

I concede to the situation, thinking only fleetingly that I really shouldn’t let Messrs. Smirnoff & Absolut make so many important decisions for me but I soon dismiss the thoughts, decelerate him to my preferred pace and we striptease each other down to naked.

Having now picked up on the fact that I like ma lovin’ slo-o-ow, he creeps his kisses down my body until he reaches my nerve centre and again, I am blown away at the sexual competence of today’s youth. He is delighted by my Hollywood, and explores it with his tongue.

‘I can’t wait to fuck you…’ he murmurs romantically against my thighs.

I allow him to feast on me until I get too close, then I swing away, get up, take his hand, blow the candles out and nudge him down the corridor to my bedroom.

He rips the covers off the bed, pushes me backwards then twirls me around until we are nose to toes.

We lingua awhile until we reach the point of no return and he swings himself up on top of me. As he’s about to enter, the word CONDOM appears in flashing neon lights above my head. I address the issue.

‘I didn’t bring any!’ he moans. ‘It seemed rude…’

‘Ruder not to!’ I reprimand and grapple around in my bedside table for my emergency packet of three, and over the next couple of hours we use them all up.

I make a mental note to add them to the next Sainsbury’s shopping list alongside the Sanatogen and tinned pilchards.

Not long after I fall off him for the final time, we are in my car on our way back to Paddington Station. He could have stayed, but he has an early start and I need a good night’s sleep.

‘Shall we keep in touch?’ he asks hesitantly.

‘Sure’ I answer. ‘Why not?’ but I feel very little as we say goodbye.

He gets out the car and without a backward glance, I floor the pedal and zoom down Praed Street right near to where CC lives. The fact that I haven’t heard from him since dinosaurs walked the earth grates on my sensibilities. My heart makes a fist and I grit my teeth and turn the radio up.

See what you’ve led me to, I curse in his general direction.

It occurs to me that I’m currently available for the price of two drinks. God, that’s cheap...but I shan’t dwell.

It was an evening’s entertainment: an Everest situation. Dan was there so I climbed him.

Mountaineers need to practice on hills before attempting cliff faces, don’t they?

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

2009-01-25T15:36:00.000-08:00

Saturday. All the men in my life seem have overdosed on stupid pills. On my way to the gym, I get a text from Rugby Player cancelling our long-awaited, pre-planned dinner date for tonight because he’s had some dental work done which has gone horribly wrong and he’s in hospital on an IV drip for the foreseeable future.

Fine.

Absolutely fucking perfect.

Just what I needed.

Now I’ve been double, or is it triple, dumped.

I text back berating him for cancelling at the last minute. He must have known in advance he was due to have this work done, so why did he commit himself if there was a likelihood of him letting me down?

My rant receives short shrift. Well it would, wouldn't it!

Thanks for the sympathy. I thought you of all people would have been a little more gracious. Let’s draw a line under this. Good luck with all you do

I carry on to Pilates and push myself to the limit which helps up to a point, but I can’t help seeing Saturday night stretching before me like a wet weekend in Weymouth.

As soon as I leave the class, I go straight to my ‘stables’, and organise films tonight with Jeremy Fisher (one of the frogs), confirm tomorrow’s drink with Desperate Dan and just to add a belt to the braces, arrange dinner with Flash Gordon for Monday night. There. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?

Of course I could have been really grown-up and stayed home re-arranging my knicker drawer, or better still, my head, but what on earth would I want to do that for?

Sunday. I text Dan to double confirm the confirmation (so which one of us is the more desperate, would you say?) and thank God he’s still up for it. As it’s cold, I suggest meeting for a drink first and if we don't horrify each other, this could be followed by 'a bowl of soup by the fire back at mine'. We arrange to meet at 7 p.m. at Warwick Avenue Station. Déjà vu Centrale.

I make a big pot of chicken and vegetable broth then go to tea at the home of my mother’s new neighbours, an utterly charming and very well-connected Canadian couple. It occurs to me they may know someone suitable for me, but I don’t know them well enough to ask. And what’s ‘suitable for me’ anyway? I’m buggered if I know.

At 7 p.m. I drive to the station. It’s raining heavily but a young man soon comes out looking this way and that. I flash my headlights and he runs across the road and jumps into my car. We take our first look at each other and he kisses me hallo.

There’s a certain insanity factor in meeting strangers off the internet like this. If I thought for one moment either of my daughters was hanging around tube stations on dark, rainy nights waiting for God-knows-who, I don’t think I’d ever sleep again…

Dan is clean, freshly-shaven and smells nice (douze points) but is only average-looking and slighter than I expected (nul points). A long evening stretches ahead.

We go to the Elgin and he gets the first round: a pint for himself and a Bloody (awful) Mary for me. The staff in there changes with the frequency of Jordan’s breast size and none of them know how to make a decent cocktail.

We fall into an easy conversation and I find him articulate and interesting to talk to. When our glasses are nearly empty, I offer to buy the next round but he won’t let me. I go to the bar with him anyway and show the dozy cow how to prepare a Bloody (good) Mary, which hits the spot like a home run. After another twenty minutes of idle chitchat, I decide it’s safe to take him home.

The vodka goggles make him seem way more attractive than he was when I first set eyes on him and when I ask what he'd like to do next, he answers:

‘Your call...but that soup back at yours sounded good.’

I play the game of pretending to ponder the matter, just to build up the tension a little.

‘It’ll be fine’ he assures me, running a finger up my forearm. ‘You won’t have a problem with me. I’ll head home whenever you want.’

He’s trucked halfway across London to meet me and it’s only 8.40 p.m., plus he’s fairly weedy so I could probably wrestle him to the ground if needs be. That would be to defend myself, not force him down on one knee, in case you were wondering.

We get back to mine and I light the fire, open a bottle of wine and put Madeleine Peyroux on the stereo. I have no wish for this particular person to Dance me to the end of love or anywhere else for that matter, but it’s easy listening and will fill the gap should the conversation wane.

I put some crisps, nuts, crudités and dips out and heat up the soup. We cosy down on the sofa and carry on chatting. My tongue is looser now and I decide to conduct a little experiment based on my falling-out with Cute Face. I steer the conversation towards age and the sort of women he’s looked at on the toyboywarehouse website.

He says at 52, ‘which you don’t look’ (when I first joined the website, I made a typo on the age question...!) I’m at the upper age limit of what he, at 25 (Christ! Is that all he is?) would be prepared to go out with. He’s looked at women up to 55 but really… that’s 30 years older than him and would definitely be off his radar. I nod sagely and wonder whether or not to do what I’m about to. I decide to go for it.

‘I’m going to confess something to you’ I say. ‘Promise me you won’t freak out…you’ve met me now so you can judge for yourself. This is to show you that you should never define people by a number…’

There’s a long pause while he waits for the hammer to fall.
‘I’m 62, not 52’.

Without missing a beat, he lunges forward and kisses me passionately on the lips swirling his tongue around and around in my mouth as if he’s searching for something. The missing ten years, perhaps?

I respond eagerly by pulling him down alongside me on the sofa and we undulate against each other while continuing to kiss. I feel the unmistakable hard-on through his jeans.

‘Not a problem then?’ I giggle as we come up for breath.

By way of an answer, he tugs my top and bra aside and lunges at my nipple.

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

2009-01-09T16:33:00.000-08:00

I weigh up the flattery factor of receiving this kind of quixotic missive from a man young enough to be my son against him being obviously pissed and looking for - as they say in the navy - any port in a storm...

I’m fairly certain he’s done the geography and my particular port is probably the closest to the bar he’s just fallen out of, not to mention the gutter he’s about to fall into.

It’s 11.45 p.m. I’m in bed, nightie on, make-up off, kilos of cream upon my face with the rotting remnants of The Migraine throbbing gently like a waiting taxi just above my right eye. The last thing I fancy is being used as a doughnut for a young man’s pleasure.

Should I even get a half decent shag out of, which frankly I can do without right now, it will no doubt be followed by a sleepless night alongside The Snore Monster, so I text back NO, it’s too late and he immediately calls and tries to convince me.

He is very drunk and when I refuse him again, he becomes abusive.

'Aw come on, at your age you should be grateful…being as how you said you were 51 on the webshite…now I find out you’re 61, which makes you a bloody liar…you should…'

I kill the call mid-stream and switch my phone off. His invective doesn’t bother me but it doesn’t make me feel great either. I decide in future to only ever tell the truth about my age. If anyone doesn’t like it, they can lump it. Besides, IT'S ONLY A NUMBER.

I sigh deeply at the tragi-comedy that is my social life and wish CC were here to take me away from all this...

Wound up now and irritated by Cute Face’s vitriol, I switch my phone back on and text him:

Life lesson for you: calling late and drunk for a fuck then making insulting remarks is neither big nor clever. U’ll never impress a woman like that. We hate arrogance and a little charm goes a long way. A hard cock is not always enough – plenty of those on offer with nicer men attached.

He throws all his toys out the pram and huffs back:

Plenty of younger women around who don’t try to take the moral high ground after they’ve lied about their age

To which I reply:

My age didn’t seem to matter when you were humping me last weekend? And you still wanted to come over tonight, right?

That shuts him up.

I ponder on this chronological/biological age thing. Looking at it from his point of view, boasting to his friends that he’s bedded a 51-year old makes him sound like a cool accomplished Casanova.

Finding out that she is in fact 61 - no matter if she only looks 51 - has put him off balance, tipping his stud scale into the realm of ladies in lavender. This could not be further from my image or that of most other 60+ year olds I know but the message that Young is Hot and Old is Not is still live and kicking in the public consciousness.

If only the media would stop defining us by a number – Paris Hilton, 25 or Vera Scrubbs, 63 – people could be judged by who they are not how old they are.

Cute Face is cross with me for misrepresenting myself but even more cross with himself for falling into the tender trap. I suspect that his gran may not be much older than me, but he’s still phoned me for a shag tonight so go figure.

I guess when the blood has risen, any orifice will do…

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

2008-12-31T00:45:00.000-08:00

Just a little Hi to all my readers to wish you all a very Happy, Healthy and Successful 2009 and to thank you all for your support since I started this blog.

'The Daily Male' will be published as a sequel to 'The Toyboy Diaries' in the New Year in a slightly different format with plenty of new experiences and I'll keep you all posted as to progress.

Hope you all had a Merry Christmas and once again, every good wish for the New Year and thanks for reading.

Best regards,

Wendy x

THE DAILY MALE continues...31/12/08

2008-12-31T00:20:00.000-08:00

46 (CC's age) is a pretty good number, so I log on to toyboywarehouse and metaphorically trade him in for one 22-year old and one 24-year old who both contacted me last night. One’s fair, one’s dark, and they’re both called Dan and are 'curious to learn more about the older woman' so who better to teach them than Yours Untruly? Either way, I’m Dan-ned if I do and Dan-ned if I don’t.

We email back and forth awhile - I have no idea which is which but no matter – and I wonder if it might be amusing to arrange to meet them both together.

In the afternoon, I prepare for a short business trip which will give me a chance to rethink some of my less-than-brilliant ideas most notably that last one.

Tuesday. Skopje. I’m travelling with a group of fifteen women headed by HRH Princess Katarina of the Balkans on a fact-finding mission to promote investment and tourism in the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia.

On the first night we are invited to dinner at the British Embassy by His Excellency the Ambassador, Sir R.U. Really-Worthit and his wife, Lady Izzy Really-Worthit. We stand around in our ball gowns making small talk and drinking abominable Balkan plonk.

A group of thick-set Macedonians have been drafted in to make up the numbers. They look like rottweillers and talk like mafiosi. I spot a couple of younger men across the room and when dinner is announced, I make a beeline for their table.

After dinner, they take us out clubbing – not something I tend to do much back home. As we are travelling with the royal party, we have a fully-armed police escort, and a fleet of chauffeur-driven bullet proof Mercs. It’s hilarious.

When I get up to go to the loo in one particularly outré disco, one of the female heavies comes with me. She clears a path through the crowd, brushes aside the queue of young girls in the Ladies and fast tracks me into the nearest stall. I wonder if this is what is meant by the Royal Wee?

We all get hammered on raki and the evening leaves me feeling as flippant as a funfair and as light as meringue. A good feeling.

The rest of the trip does what it said on the brochure. We visit museums, mosques and monasteries and I make a couple of new girlfriends among the group. One of them is psychic and while visiting an archaeological dig, she comes over all spiritual. We’re walking across some old burial pits and her antenna picks something up. She turns to me suddenly and says:

‘That man you’re thinking about - you have to let him come to you…’

I stare at her for a moment and nod sagely. In spite of it all, I am, of course, still thinking about CC 23/7.

Wednesday. I check my emails and find I have several new recruits on toyboywarehouse, none of whom float my boat or twang my thang. I’m starting to worry that I’ll return home to the mortal dread of all single people: a Blank Holiday weekend. Rugby Player for all his bravado is terminally unreliable and the Desperate Dans have gone off the radar.

Saturday. After a gruelling three-hour car journey from the Kosovan border to the airport, followed by a stopover in Vienna, I get home to find my internet is down. This is quite inconvenient, the physical equivalent of having both arms cut off at the elbow and both legs at the knee.

I try not to panic or shout at Bashar in Mumbai, Prakesh in Bangalore and Kemal in New Delhi but they talk to me in tongues using words like protocol, logfile and encryption. Follow instructions as I may, I STILL CANNOT PICK UP MY EMAILS.

A migraine circles my head like a hungry scavenger then dive bombs through my skull into the side of my temple. It starts pecking away at the left cortal section of my frontal lobe causing my own hard drive to crash. I leave the unpacking ‘til tomorrow, take two heavy-duty prescription pills and go to bed, praying that the problem will have resolved itself by morning.

Sunday. Still no internet connection in my home office. The migraine has now dug itself in for the duration and every time I move, I see Aurora Borealis and hear Very Strident Music. I struggle on regardless taking my laptop to the nearest café to check my emails. Nothing earth-moving business-wise, but one of the Dans has returned to basecamp and we make a tentative date for next week.

CC has now set up shop in the part of my brain not being assaulted by the Red Army Ensemble. He is peddling his wares which include Bad Vibes, Negative Energies and Terminal Grief Syndrome which all come in my size.

I mentally compose tracts of a letter to him which all sound articulate, convincing and feasible but I don’t note any of it down, so when I actually put fingers to keyboard, I can’t remember a single word. What I do write comes out sounding stupid, needy and pathetic. I take more head drugs and go to bed.

Friday. Rugby Player and I have a date arranged for tomorrow. I text to ask if it's still on and he confirms an 8 o'clock pick up for an 8.30 table. This time it sounds like it might actually happen. I’ll wear the lingerie he sent me, but more for me than for him. I doubt he’ll get to see it.

Cute Face bleeps in. We’ve had no contact in more than a week, ever since he’d forgotten our last arrangement and I’d told him off. Frankly, I never expected to hear from him again.

Wat u up 2? Ive got the raging horn. Shall I cum over? Hehe

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

2008-12-15T13:35:00.000-08:00

I spend the following morning trying to put my thoughts in order. This self-imposed nonsense (though I refuse to recognize it as such) is doin' me 'ead in, yet in some indulgently sado-masochistic way, I'm pushing the boundaries of my sanity to see how far they'll go.

In the light of my other dalliances during and since meeting CC, you (and I) might find it hard to believe that my feelings for this man are genuine and I do seem to have the ability to separate my body from my heart and my emotions from my actions and in that respect, I am fragmented yet complete.

My daughter, Lily, pops by for a bowl of soup and I tell her about the date last night.

‘He doesn’t sound that interested!’ she states. ‘And he’s already told you as much Mum, so why don’t you listen? Find someone less complicated! Now, about that course I want to go on...’

The role reversal going on here is not lost on me and annoyingly, she’s probably right. And it can’t be easy having a mother like me.

Halfway through the afternoon, I remember that Cute Face and I had made a tentative arrangement for tonight but I haven't heard from him and it's already 4 o'clock. Our wild weekend seems as far away as Venus, but when I text him Are we on for this evening? he replies Oh crap. I’ve just arranged something.

Although I’m not that bovvered preferring to stay home and concentrate on my magnificent obsession, I am slightly peeved that he's forgotten our prospective date which compounds the theory: Give a man what he wants and he no longer wants it.

I text back a sniffy: Thanks for forgetting and not letting me know! to which I get Sorry hun. Don’t be grumpy and ruin my illusion that relationships with older women are less stressful! to which I shoot a finger-wagging: You need to be polite no matter the woman's age... to which I get silence. Another one I’ll probably never hear from again.

At 6 p.m. knowing his phone will probably be off, I leave CC an effusive message:

…I just wanted to thank you for a really great evening…it was so lovely seeing you again. About the theatre, please call me back when you have your diary handy so we can make a plan and I can tempt you with whatever you want to see…I really don’t want to leave it so long before we meet again…speak to you very soon, I hope? Lots of love...

I loathe grovellers so why am I grovelling now? Answers on a postcard please.

Saturday. I wake up a little down, the positive aspects of the next date with CC diminishing with every hour that passes sans reply to my sycophantic message. I add up the credits in my social account and they don’t amount to a hill of beans. I have:

1 x lascivious lothario who lives in New York and sends me expensive lingerie he’ll never see me wear.

1 x arrogant short-arse boy toy who FORGOT WE HAD A DATE LAST NIGHT and

1 x navel-gazer who is terrified of his own shadow, never mind having a relationship with me.

Pondering woman’s propensity to find a man she really likes then immediately try to change him, I wonder if that’s why I’m so drawn to CC. Speaking psycho-babbly, in seeking your soul mate you are drawn to the fragilities of others from which you too suspect you might suffer. By attempting to heal them, you are attempting to heal yourself. I don’t understand this either. I told you it was psycho-babble.

I pray to the Goddess of Lost Causes to show me the way to either fuck him or forget him or at least to be able to say: Fuck him! I’m going to forget him.

I discuss the subject with my daughter again and she suggests that since I’ve been unable to express my feelings vocally, I write him a letter. Not a text, nor an email, but a good old-fashioned pen to paper letter. 'It’ll be cathartic' she advises just as I would have had she been in the same situation, 'and you never know what may come of it...' and so I begin:

My dearest CC,
Dear Sweet CC
Dear CC
CC Darling
My darling CC

which takes me twenty minutes and I don’t get a whole lot further.

Sunday. As if Dyno-rod has done a night-cleansing operation on my brain, I wake up in a completely different frame of mind. Barbra and Donna’s song No More Tears (Enough is Enough) beings playing in my head.

It's raining, it's pouring
My love life is boring me to tears,
after all these years...

and I resolve, once and for all, not to waste any more time on this man.
I really must move on. If he’s happy being a tormented, introvert, self-absorbed, sad-assed hypochondriac, then I wish him well of it. There really is nothing more I can do.

With a renewed sense of self and optimistic vigour, I step out from under the cloud of pain and with the help of John Frieda’s Highlight Enhancing Shampoo for Champagne Blondes, I wash that man right out of my hair and decide to treat myself to a feast of unfettered self-gratification by replacing him now - this very day!

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

2008-12-06T02:42:00.000-08:00

During the evening, he’s complimented me on everything: my jacket, the colour of my top, my pearls, my earrings, my skirt, my nail varnish – every detail of what I’m wearing. To have a man seem so interested, yet still have no idea where I stand with him, is discombobulating.

Despite my recent shenanigans with AB, CD and EF, these were just pastimes to kill the hours, days and nights while waiting for CC to come back into my life. Not exactly honest behaviour, I know, but what the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over.

Now that I’m with him however, my blousy confidence has blown out the window and I feel like I’m drowning, the life raft having been carelessly omitted from the manifest.

As we sit in the back of the taxi, me trying somehow to climb inside him, he begins to run his hand up and down my arm. His touch is like a promise and my cheating heart soars as I take this tactile contact as proof of his feelings for me. If it's not love, it's something I manage to interpret as such.

I sigh deeply and rest my head lightly on his shoulder. He stops his movements immediately and stiffens in all the wrong places.

‘There’s so much I want to say to you…’ I whisper encouragingly, and I actually feel a lump rise in my throat.

He doesn’t ask what this ‘so much’ is and the moment somehow passes. The taxi is nearing my home and having waited so long to be with him, I know these precious few hours are rushing towards their unnatural conclusion. I need more time with him. I need to express how I feel.

The taxi pulls up outside my block, and I raise my head and look questioningly at him.

'Now what?' say my worried eyes. His impassive look reveals nothing.

‘Would you like to…?’ I begin tentatively as if I'm inviting a rabbit to stand in my headlights.

‘No. Thank you. I must get home.’ The rabbit retreats to its warren.

My heart crashes through the floor but I decide not to push it. Not tonight. It’s gone better than I could have hoped. I think.

He walks me to the entrance of my block and kisses me goodnight. The lightest brush of his lips on mine is tantalizing, but for now, that will have to do. I thank him for a lovely evening and we say goodbye.

As I climb my stairs I write the text: Everything I wanted to say could have been summed up in just three words but I do not send it. I know that less is more and I want so much more.

I go to sleep peacefully, convinced he and I are far from over. In fact, I think we’re just beginning.

Wednesday. I wake up with a banging headache as expected and replay the evening like a cracked record changing the end with every turn. I’m certainly no worse off than I was yesterday, in fact, I may be a lot better. He didn’t have a dig at my lifestyle like the last time I saw him, and he was pleasant and personable company.

I feel very restless though. I want to call him, but I’m afraid of not catching him in the right mood, of him being cold to me which will compound my insecurity. I’ll do it later and see if I can pin him down for that theatre date.

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

2008-11-29T01:35:00.000-08:00

Another few minutes pass, during which time I develop a tic in my right eye. It flickers uncontrollably like Herbert Lom’s in The Pink Panther every time Clouseau hove into view.

Now I’m slightly tipsy and my eye’s all a’quiver. Maybe if I break both ankles as I’m going down the stairs, I can claim disability allowance and retire gracefully to Eastbourne, then I won’t have to worry about dating inappropriate men any more.

Unable to contain myself any longer, I pick up my handbag and keys, lock my front door and walk very carefully down the three flights of stairs. I twitch for another few minutes in the hallway of my block and finally, a black cab pulls up.

I leave my building smiling and walk confidently towards him, like a clapperboard's just been clapped and the director’s barked: ‘Action!!’

He’s in the back of the taxi on his mobile phone. He grasps my hand as I climb in and pulls a face by way of apology. I mouthe ‘Don’t worry…’ and squeeze his hand so tightly I nearly fracture his fingers.

I look at him and I look at him again. God. He is handsome. More so than I remember. I haven’t seen him since that awful night he fell apart in my little tub chair, and he’s actually improved.

The illusion I have of him in my mind did not, strangely, include the way he looks. It was more about the complexity of his character and the way he made me feel on holiday...certainly not since as, if you weigh it up, a major brain fuck is not perhaps that seductive.

He’s wearing a crisp white shirt, a grey suit and no tie. I’ve only ever seen him in ski wear or jeans. Or naked.

He finishes his call and turns to me and we give each other a big hug and a kiss on each cheek.

‘You look absolutely gorgeous…’ he says softly, looking me up and down with undisguised admiration.

Then he releases my hand abruptly, as if by holding on to it he might be lured back into some dark place he neither understands nor wishes to go.

‘It’s all new,’ I reply, so glad that he’s noticed. ‘Especially for tonight.’

Accommodate him, please him, make-him-feel-at-ease-him.

He apologizes again for having come straight from work and for being late, then draws my attention to the fact that his shoes could have been cleaner.

‘But you’ve been working,’ I say, helping to excuse him. I wouldn’t have cared if he’d been wearing one gold flip flop and one dog-eared trainer.

‘I’d wanted to go home and change, but I ran out of time’ he explains. ‘In fact, I nearly had to cancel again, but I knew that wouldn’t have gone down too well…’

Too right it wouldn’t.

‘Why what happened?’ I ask, deeply interested in what his idea of a good reason to cancel would have been.

‘There was a crisis at a property I’m renovating, but I got someone else to deal with it. If I’d had to go there myself, I suppose I could have picked you up first and taken you with...?’

‘I wouldn’t have minded that,’ I answer. ‘I would’ve put jeans on and we could’ve got a takeaway pizza…as long as we’d been together…that’s all I want…’

I drop my voice to little more than a whisper.

‘And I’ve not been well again since we last met…’ he informs me, with a drop of whine in his voice.

‘You look very well now,’ I flatter. ‘How do you feel?’

The correct answer would have been ‘All the better for seeing you’ but I don’t get that.

Instead he’s looking straight ahead, seemingly lost in thought. His hands are clasped together in his lap. I want to take one in mine and lift it to my lips but I don’t want to freak him out.

We make small talk for the rest of the journey and arrive at the restaurant where he orders two glasses of champagne. We clink a toast to seeing each other again and relax into conversation, like two normal people out on a date.

We share a bottle of wine with the meal. I know I’ll have a headache in the morning but I don’t care. I don’t need my head for anything other than thinking about him and that’s been an ache for the past five weeks anyway.

When I laugh at something he says, I realize I haven’t laughed since the last time we laughed together, and I tell him this because it’s true.

I take the conversation back to the good times we shared, trying to remind him how wonderful we were together in those carefree, heady, fun-filled days.

‘And oh those lazy afternoons... when it was snowing too hard to do anything but...' I sigh but he will not meet my eyes.

We talk about work and what’s on at the theatre, and there’s actually a play he wants to see. I immediately offer to buy the tickets and suggest we go together.

He hesitates, and I know I’m going too fast. I've definitely assumed the role of predator here, over keen, over-aged and over here. When an over eager suitor does this to me, I find it really annoying.

As we near the end of the meal, I notice a button hanging loose from the cuff of his jacket, and another one actually missing.

‘You need someone to look after you…’ I offer sweetly. ‘If you want to come home with me later, I’ll sew them back on for you.’

He looks at me as if I’ve just told him I’ve laid animal traps all up my stairs and there’s little chance of him avoiding them.

He pulls at his sleeve trying to turn it round so I won’t see it.

‘You’ll tell all your friends I arrived late looking like a tramp,’ he gripes, clearly embarrassed that I’ve noticed another flaw in his presentation,

‘Don’t be silly’ I cajole. ‘I’ll tell them that you arrived on a white charger, all tall and gorgeous, and that we had a wonderful time. That’s right, isn’t it?’

He manages to nod and shake his head all at the same time, an action Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men perfected it in the fifties.

Now it’s me who needs reassuring, me who feels insecure. I’m trying to love the pants off him and he’s shrinking down in his seat like a puppet whose master’s let go of the strings.

We share a chocolate mousse, then he pays the bill and we walk down Charing Cross Road to find a cab. He doesn’t hold my hand nor take my arm but strides on ahead looking left and right. At one point, a group of drunken youths block my path, and I have to step this way and that to get past them.

I call out to him: ‘Look after me, please. I’m about to be hi-jacked here!’ and he slows down and I take his arm.

This doesn’t feel natural. He’s holding it stiffly away from his body like someone’s left a brolly stuck up his sleeve. I let go and we carry on walking separately.

We eventually find a cab and climb in and at last, he takes my hand and I entwine my legs through his. He looks down at my feet.

‘Oh what lovely shoes!’ he remarks and I snuggle up closer to him.

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

2008-11-22T05:43:00.000-08:00

...but of course, I must be slightly attached because as the hours tick by and I don’t hear from him, I start to feel slightly miffed. I didn’t expect the mad momentum of last week - that would have been unreasonable – but a 'thank you for having me :- )' wouldn’t have gone amiss.

I get on with my day getting increasingly peeved whilst attempting to accept the inevitable. I consider texting him, but what would I say? A telling-off would be churlish and I sure as hell ain’t gonna thank him considering I did most of the work! I prepare myself for the fact that now he's had his way, I may never hear from him again.

At 6.30 p.m., I go to yoga and then for a drink with some of the girls. A guy comes over to chat to us but he’s wearing a wedding band so I send him packing, and as I’m heading back home, my phone finally vibrates. It’s Cute Face. About bloody time.

Hey sexy. Had a good day?

I smile and thank G-d that normal service has been resumed. I wait a while before replying (he's punished) and we make another date for Wednesday, in his words 'a school night', so if CC on Tuesday goes horribly wrong, at least I’ll have something to fall back on.

Just before signing off for the night, when he’s obviously having a bit of a personal fondle, Cute Face enquires if he can he ask me a very personal question. I could put money on what’s coming...

Do you ever take it up the arse? I’ve never really tried it…not bothered either way but I thought I’d ask x

How very charming! And nice that he ended with a kiss.

While I'm composing my reply which takes a while, he sends a mildly panicked Have I offended you? obviously worried that he’s gone too far.

I tried it once (thrice actually) but it didn’t work for me. Too painful, too many nasties involved and it didn’t turn me on. I know women who like it but I’m not one of them. In case the next question is ‘Do you swallow?’ I’m not keen on that either. Are you getting bored already??!

I don’t hear back from him so I shrug, switch everything off and go to sleep.

Tuesday. Today’s the today. My date with CC. He won’t cancel now, will he? I expect I’ll hear from him sometime later to confirm. I’ll give him ‘til 5, then I’ll give him ‘til 6.

I have lunch with a girlfriend in the café where I write and just as she's leaving, my mobile rings. I leap out of my seat as I see CC's name on the screen and I run out into the street to where the noise levels are lower.

I don’t want him to hear the background buzz in case he thinks I’m here with someone else. That might make him insecure again. The situation's tenuous enough as it is…

He sounds bright and perky and offers to pick me up in a cab at 7.15 to which I agree with effusive thanks. We hang up with a jointly chirpy ‘See you later' and I try to work on through the afternoon.

At 5.30 I go home to start getting ready. I change into my new coral top with the matching silk skirt, and slip into my taupe patent high heel shoes, finishing off with a pearl necklace and earrings. He’s never seen me this dressed up before. I hope he likes it.

At 6.36, I’m absolutely bricking it. If I put any more make up on, I’ll look like a drag queen. I need a drink, but I don’t want to smell of alcohol and I also feel I might throw up. Notwithstanding this, I pour myself a vodka and cranberry juice, crack some ice into it and down it in one.

Rugby Player texts me à propos of nothing: You are an uber sexy version of Jennie Bond. What the fuck is he talking about?

I ignore him ‘cos he’s disturbing this deliciously anticipatory moment, but at 7.20 I declare CC officially late.

I’m not unduly worried. The drink has calmed me down somewhat but now I’m dying for a fag. That would truly be the kiss of death. He’s very anti-smoking and he would definitely smell it on me. And I don’t really smoke anyway, except I really need one NOW.

My phone rings suddenly and I grab it off the kitchen table. It’s him. He can’t make it. No, it’s OK. He’s apologizing. He’ll be another five minutes.

‘No problem!’ I squeak brightly.

You can be five years late, mate, as long as you turn up eventually…and I take a long, neat slug from the vodka bottle.

I check myself in the mirror one last time. Short of stripping everything off and starting again, there’s not a lot else I can do.

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

2008-11-16T12:37:00.000-08:00

I’m more mellow in the morning and when he spoons in behind me with a ship’s cannon between his legs, I part mine invitingly to welcome him in. He rubs his thumb dreamily against my nipple and strokes my breasts, and I feel a warm gush surge through me. I arch my back and press my buttocks into his lap. He groans and slides his erection into my slippery wetness.

We rock slowly to and fro against each other until our movements pick up speed. I roll onto my stomach and he continues to hump me from behind. He gets there before I do, but I don’t mind...I'll catch up soon enough and once he’s rolled off, I take his hand, lick his middle finger, guide it onto my twitching bud and even up the score.

We lay there for a while stroking each other dreamily, then I reach into the bedside cabinet for a bottle of something liquid. I roll him onto his tummy and straddle him, then pour a warm drizzle of baby oil all the way down the centre of his back.

He moans with pleasure as I start to distribute it, concentrating on his shoulders and spine. I enjoy doing this. I am a very giving person. If a man treats me right, the service chez moi is terrific. Tea, crumpets, blowjobs, massages - it's a wonder I haven't got half a dozen tenants living under my roof!

Later on, he gets up and goes out to buy the papers and by the time he returns I’m in the kitchen cooking breakfast. I’m starting to get that sinking feeling: overtired, energy spent, sex drive sated, not a lot to look forward to. Except, of course, my date with CC now only two days away...

Cute Face and I lie around all morning reading the papers then I beat him roundly at Scrabble which he does not like AT ALL. We discuss shopping for my new TV - a complete déjà vu of the same conversation I had with MLP some months before.

Eventually I’ll stay with a guy long enough to get this blessed thing bought and installed before we're all running around with screens on the ends of our noses.

He leaves at 2 p.m. to go and watch footie with his mates. It’s the last day of the season, so what would one expect?

‘I hope you enjoyed the weekend as much as you thought you would...’ I fish, as he hugs me goodbye at the door.

‘Of course I did’ he answers, but I know, somehow, that it’s over.

As I get into bed that night, I get a text from Rugby Player.

Hey sexy, had a fun weekend?

Do I tell the truth? Best not.

Served soup in the homeless shelter wearing your lingerie beneath my overalls I lie.

Spent it with my sexy ex in a Riad in Marrakesh he (maybe also) lies.

This winds me up.

Only teasing. I shoot back. Had a shag fest with a 28 yr old.

RP is 38 so this truth is designed to make him feel insecure.

Where do you find them? he asks

Fortnum's Food Hall I reply

Wish I was there…am feeling horny… he informs me.

Deal with it! I retort.

I intend to ; - ) he says.

Wankers of the world unite. I’m going to sleep.

Monday.

The silence from Cute Face is deafening.

The girlfriends call for a post-mortem.

‘It was fine’ I tell them.

‘That doesn’t sound over-enthusiastic!’ says one.

‘It was what it was’ I reply. ‘I hardly expected him to go down on one knee, though we went down alright! He arrived early – I mean 2.30 in the afternoon is a fairly enthusiastic time to begin a Saturday night date - then I made tea, we had sex, I made more tea, we had more sex, I cooked dinner, we watched TV, we had sex, we played Scrabble, we had sex, we went to sleep – well he did...we woke up, we had more sex, I made breakfast and he went home.

What else do you want to know? I may never see him again, but that’s the name of the game - the one I play, at any rate! Anyway, I’m not that fussed. He’s nice enough but…you know…’

I trail off wondering if they do know. How can they if I don’t?

‘How do you cope?’ Calm Best Friend asks.

‘I don’t get attached' I reply.

THE DAILY MALE - continues...9/11/08

2008-11-09T11:12:00.000-08:00

I'm talking to my girlfriend about sex at sixty. She’s currently got it all going on with a 67-year old millionaire from Monte Carlo who slams her up against the wall every time they meet. (This relationship doesn't last...)

We discuss the aggravation aspect of men versus no men which is a no-brainer. Of course there’s aggravation. It goes with the territory. (And talking of aggravation, I still think CC is worth fighting for…)

I notice in the mirror that I’ve got a spot on my chin…perhaps it comes from behaving like an adolescent. Having the spot is bad enough, but now that I’ve mucked about with it, it’s looking a lot worse.

I wonder, if I cover it with enough make-up, will I be able to angle my face in such a way as not to rub the make-up off when Cute Face kisses me? (There are people out there dying, but this to me is a major problem. All my lifetime I should have such problems...)

It’s a very sunny day and The Spot will no doubt shine out from my chin like the Eddystone Lighthouse. Maybe I’ll pass on the TV shopping and stall Cute Face until it gets dark, bearing in mind he’s told me several times what’s going to happen the minute he steps across my threshold. Out Damned Spot! I’ll have to bank on him not noticing the mantelpiece while he’s stoking the fire.

I go to have my hair trimmed and finish earlier than expected. Now I have two hours to kill. As if reading my thoughts, he texts to ask if 3.30 is still OK.

Or sooner? I offer, forgetting about the sun/Spot situation. 2.30? he enquires eagerly. Go on then…x I reply and dash home to change my clothes - four times as if it matters.

I’m delighted to see that it’s started raining. I close the bedroom curtains so there’s not a chink of light, and I potter about in the kitchen ‘til the doorbell rings.

He bounds up the stairs and the minute I set eyes on him, I start giggling. I knew I would. All the sexual build-up of the past week de-materializes into a form of embarrassment, as we hug and kiss awkwardly on the doorstep and I lead him into the living-room.

We sit down on the sofa both talking rubbish at once and I wonder where all the feelings went. How liberated we were by text, without eye contact, without inhibitions… I offer him something to drink but because it’s too early for alcohol, the afternoon turns into Mrs. Beeton’s Victorian tea party.

I’m in my comfort zone: boiling the kettle, buttering the crumpets, preparing the tea things on a pink embroidered traycloth, decanting some raspberry jam into a small china ramekin. He appreciates this and it diffuses the tension between us.

He puts the (old) TV on (we’re not going to make it out, are we?) and we relax in each other’s arms. It’s only 3.20 p.m. We have all the time in the world…

By 3.27 p.m. we’re in bed with our heads between each other’s legs and the week long fantasy is coming true. How blissfully liberating is Saturday afternoon sex, especially when you’ve got the rest of the weekend ahead of you…

Our ardour rises rapidly and I’m glad he’s not tall as we fit each other perfectly, whichever way you turn it. He’s shaved his entire genital area and with my fresh Hollywood frou-frou, we’re both as silky smooth as Romeo and Juliet without the family problems.

When we finish our first bout, he puts The Robe on (see Chapter Five The Toyboy Diaries) and with me in my lilac tracksuit, we go back to the fireside sofa for more tea and a game of Scrabble.

It really is delightfully dichotomous: a 28-year-old and a 61-year-old who happen to be lovers, hot for each other one minute, competitive with word games the next. He’s never played before. He picks it up bloody fast and tries to thrash me. I can see the makings of a Very Bad Loser, and we finish two points short of each other, him winning under my expert tutelage. To celebrate his victory, I give him a blow job which leads to us going back to bed for Round Two.

As I am, at this point, needing a little help to reach my destination, I fantasize that I’m a young nun being raped by the Mother Superior wearing a strap-on.

At 6 p.m., the designated 'cocktail hour', he opens a bottle of rosé for himself, pours me a Scotch and ginger and I cut up some crudités to eat with the blue cheese dip I prepared earlier.

We relax back on the sofa, cuddled up in each other’s arms. It’s cold and wet outside but the stars are aligned in perfect symmetry. At 8 p.m. I stick some Waitrose Thai in the oven and we eat in off a tray in front of the tele. Aaaah! Blissto.

Having started our date at 2.30 p.m. and had two energetic bouts of deeply satisfying sex, by 10 p.m. we’re both shattered. He falls asleep on the sofa spooned in behind me snoring like a hog. I tolerate this for as long as I am able, then I get up and clear away the dinner things. When I go back to check on him, he’s flat out on the couch, one leg thrown over the back, his face buried in a pile of cushions. The snoring continues apace, so I switch off all the lights, lower the volume on the TV, and take myself - happily alone - off to bed.

I contemplate throwing a duvet over him to make him more comfortable but I can’t be arsed to rummage around looking for it. And I certainly don’t want to wake him up, so I adjust the heating instead, remove my make-up and go to sleep.

At around 2 a.m. I hear him get up and go the loo, and then, of course, he comes to join me. Damn. He snuggles up but I ignore him and he soon falls back to sleep his face pressed up hard against my neck. The snoring begins again in earnest, and I push him away crossly and reach for my ear plugs. He spreadeagles himself across my bed then wriggles through the rest of the night, until he’s wrapped up like a mummy in my top sheet. For a little guy, he sure takes up a lot of space and I am now seriously uncomfortable, wide awake and very grumpy. I keep trying to shove him away but he’s too hard to shift.

God! I think. The price one has to pay for a couple of man-made orgasms. (Hail, oh Rabbit! I love thee well…)

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

2008-11-02T10:03:00.000-08:00

Thursday. The past two days have been totally dominated by Cute Face and his not unwelcome barrage of horny, little texts filling my inbox with fun and filth, and my mind with anticipation for the weekend ahead.

It amuses me to reply in kind (any exercise in writing is a writing exercise) but I get to wondering if my 350 free texts are going to be sufficient this month - Heaven forbid this interlude should begin to cost me money!

Of course I know it won’t last. It reminds me of the beginning with MLP when it was all full-on and brimming with pent-up passion. How do you get that intensity to last? I’ve never found the formula even with my great age and experience.

I’m wondering (like it matters) whether Cute Face and I haven’t gone into overkill mode with all this expectation – the fantasy being better than the reality 'n all.

If he’s told me once he’s told me a thousand times how much he’s looking forward to seeing me again, longing to have his body next to mine, to gently slip inside me and feel how wet I am around his throbbing cock, making him wanna cum so hard he could burst, how he fancies me something rotten, that I’m well fit, that he’ll do anything for me - anything at all. It's all guff, of course...but it's a shame I can’t put him in a pot with CC and melt them both down to make the perfect partner!

The postman arrives with my replacement Myla bra. It looks beautiful. I’ll send Rugby Player another 'thank you' later when I’ve tried it on. It’s the middle of the night in New York anyway, and he’s probably busy wooing someone else.

I wonder whether to wear this new lingerie for my date with Cute Face on Saturday. I’m not sure that’s what RP intended when he sent it to me, but CF is here and RP isn’t and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

Thursday night. I go out to eat over-priced Asian Fusion with the Lizard of Oz. Bless him, he’s in his sixties and still behaves like a teenager. Whoops...pot kettle black. Shame I don’t fancy him or we’d both be sorted. No more gallivanting shenanigans with unsuitable brain fucks.

I thought I saw CC in the restaurant. I did a double take and my heart made a bid for freedom by trying to punch a hole through my chest. But it wasn’t him.

Friday. I dreamt about CC all night. He called me (which would have been nice) and in my dream, we talk a lot about how it was between us when we first met and what’s been happening since. Not what I’ve been doing, Christ! I’m hardly likely to tell him that!! Anyway, it’s his fault I’m on this path of self-destruction...or ‘having a laugh’ as I prefer to call it.

In the context of ‘If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with’, I text Cute Face:

No more texting til we meet tomorrow. First one to crack gets a smack.

Rain is predicted. Good. We won’t feel guilty about staying in bed the entire weekend.

The ‘no texting’ policy falls at the first hurdle when he caves and starts e-mailing me. I ignore him.

I go to the beauty parlour and instead of a Brazilian, I have a full Hollywood. I’d already broached the subject with him and he told me to surprise him. I surprise myself by managing not to scream. I cave back and text him:

Ouch! I hope you like 12-yr olds…

Completely off? he replies. Cool. I’ll be giving you a good tongue lashing tomorrow.

A little later, obviously having pondered the matter at length (like Albert Einstein pondering the Theory of Relativity) he asks:

So when you get a wax, do you have to get naked?

How else? I reply. What are you thinking about? Another woman touching my cho-cho?

I wasn’t… but I am now! Have you ever done that? Not that I’m asking… you’re more than enough for lil' ol' me but I bet you have, being the experienced woman you are

I continue to wind him up until it’s time to go to my mother’s for dinner. Halfway through a bowl of her especially delicious chicken soup with matzo balls, Rugby Player texts me: How’s the new underwear?

Shit. I forgot to let him know it had arrived or to thank him.

I reply and a conversation ensues:

Absolutely gorgeous. Thanks again. It’ll look stunning hanging from the canopy of a king-size 4-poster bed...
I’d like to see that…
Play your cards right…
I have another pressie for you. But it’s rather more personal…
Avec batteries I presume?
Spot on!

I leave it after that. If he’s into buying presents, I have no wish to discourage that. And not replying gives me a credit. In case I should ever wish to text him first. Which I don’t.

Cute Face is out with mates tonight getting drunk. Why do they do that when they know they need to be on top form the following night?

Saturday. On waking, I find two voice messages in my mail box. Both very drunk, sent in the early hours, the noise of his feet crunching along a road.

I’m really really looking forward to seeing you tomorrow… hic…byebyebye…

followed by something that sounds like him tripping up, then a thud and a groan.

The second message is four minutes long, not talking but walking. He’s obviously forgotten to hang up the first call.

At 10.15 a.m. I text him:

Good morning! x and an hour later, he replies:

not feelin gr8

There’s a surprise… says I. Can you get here by 3.30 so we can go and buy the tele? but I don’t hear back.

I’m not unduly worried. Well maybe just a little.

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

2008-10-26T05:44:00.000-07:00

Every time I think we’ve finished and I’m laid out on the deck facing north, south, east or west, he starts all over again and this continues until about 5 a.m. when I finally tell him to leave me the hell alone so I can get some sleep.

He goes out like a light snoring like Darth Vader with a sinus problem and I stuff my ear plugs in and when the room eventually stops spinning, I close my eyes and drift away.

After a couple of hours, we start again and make love intermittently between 8 a.m. and midday. I then get up v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y and cook us a full English breakfast. He showers, gets dressed, hugs me affectionately and goes off to watch the football.

About an hour after he leaves, I receive an MMS from him: his hand grasping the engorged base of his fully erect penis. I’m a bit surprised it isn’t nesting quietly against his inner thigh, considering the night it’s had, and am rather taken aback by the ensuring video clip of him pleasuring himself. I can hardly walk and he’s at it the minute he gets home!

I text him to stop being a dirty, little bugger as I'm barely firing on half a cylinder and stumble through the next couple of hours tidying up my flat which looks like The International Festival du Fuck has just taken place.

Later I go to the cinema to see Away from Her where I promptly fall asleep missing the central theme of the plot. It’s about a long-married couple, the wife of whom puts herself in a home due to impending Alzheimer’s. I can’t relate to the long-married bit at all… and it would be too sad to contract Alzheimer's and forget all these delicious experiences. Just as well I’m writing them down.

I go to bed early but am woken just after midnight by another text from Cute Face, offering to come over again. I’ll save him for next Saturday. My tender nethers need to convalesce.

Monday. Cute Face texts me on and off all day and when I get home, I suggest he may want to come shopping with me at the weekend to help me choose a a new TV. You’d have thought I’d offered him a shared stateroom on a Caribbean cruise with Angelina Jolie and her twin sister!

God you really know how to get a man going’ he exudes. Electronics shopping…Absolutely!! Bring it on x

He suggests I go for the SkyHD enabled, 72” flat screen, surround-sound VHRAM home cinema thingy, and I tell him all he has to do is put it in the car, carry it up the stairs, install it and teach the Victorian woman how it works. Then I might make him a cup of tea.

'Tea is the only reward I want…' he replies '...that and to ravish your sexy naked body.

You don’t get that at John Lewis. No matter how Never Knowingly Undersold they are.

Now some people might question the fact that a 28-year old is complimenting me on my ‘sexy naked body’ at the age of 62, but I have it on good authority (unforgiving mirror, ex-lovers who come back for more) that it’s not that bad. At least no one’s ever asked for their money back, and frankly, when a man’s blood lust has headed south, I don't think it matters if you're Scarlett Johanssen or a watermelon.

Tuesday. The day begins with a good morning text from Cute Face.

I can’t get rid of my raging horn. You must have warped me, Salisbury.

Methinks it’s all in your mind, young sir... I reply.

The messages degenerate throughout the day into graphic sexual detail
(I wish I had my tongue in your pussy right now… I’m absolutely longing to be inside you and fuck you any way you want me to…I want to feel your cum on my rock hard cock… ) and so on and so forth. He's angling for another invitation before next Saturday. He won’t get it.

My long-term married lover of some thirty years makes one of his occasional calls and asks me if I want to ‘come out to play’ with him and his mistress. We’ve done this once before as I am occasionally partial to a little girl-on-girl action - isn’t everyone?? I decline however. I have enough going on and I can always pick this offer up some other time when the cupboard is bare.

In any case, I reason, what I’m doing now is just biding my time until I begin my Proper Relationship with CC at which point I will drop everyone and everything and commit myself to coupledom.

Self-delusion is alive and well and living in West London.

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

2008-10-13T16:35:00.000-07:00

I throw on some make-up, fluff up my hair, change my flats for heels and walk down to the local wine bar.

God! Rugby Player is way better looking than I remembered and he has indeed lost a couple of stone. He’s got a strong jaw with a cleft chin, a thick head of graying hair, and very large green eyes. He’s tall, well-dressed and from his generous present is on the right side of rich. Not that this matters to me, but if I’d passed him in the street, or anywhere else for that matter, I’d have tripped myself up and fallen headfirst into his lap.

I thank him effusively for the lurvely lingerie and ask him if he presumes that by sending such a gift, it buys him the right to handle the goods contained therein.

‘Not at all...’ he replies. ‘There’s no obligation whatsoever…though it would be very nice…I enjoy spoiling beautiful women especially those to whom I am attracted.’

I can’t argue with that. I drink a tomato juice and we chat for a while then he has to go. I kiss him goodbye and by the time I’ve walked home, he’s texted:

You are both striking and have great chat. Looking forward to indulging you xx.

Ooh! OK...Indulge away, I think to myself. I sure as hell ain’t gonna stop you.

Later that evening, while having dinner with my mother and aunt, he texts me again and because I’ve slung some Chilean Chardonnay down my neck and convinced myself that I really fancy him, I’m a little more overt than usual in my reply...

Saturday. I shoot down to Portobello Road to have coffee with an occasional customer of mine, a darling young chap I've wanted to 'mother' since the day we met.

There is a certain je ne sais quoi in the air between us and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got Benjamin-style designs on me. My maternal feelings are rather like reverse MILF i.e. SILF (son I’d like to f***…)

When we say goodbye, he kisses me fondly and says: ‘We must go out for dinner sometime.’ Yes, I think. We must.

I go home to prepare some pasta for my children, and while I’m doing this, I’m on the phone negotiating a lower price for a piece of furniture I saw in All Saint's Road.

My mobile goes off, but I ignore it and carry on with my wheeler-dealing while stirring the Bolognese. I lean over to look at the mobile screen and it says a name I don’t immediately recognize. I have a habit of giving people code names when I save them and I can't always remember who they are.

I think it may be my son-in-law’s father, but as I hang up the furniture call and pick up the mobile, I realise who it actually is.

IT'S………CC!!!!

OH.

My joy at seeing his name on the screen is totally disproportionate with any emotions I’ve experienced in the last ten years and I savour the moment before pressing the answer key.

‘Hallo?’ I say innocently, as if I don’t know who I'm speaking to.

He introduces himself and I come over all warm and soppy. As usual (he's really such a wimp) he starts with an apology.

‘I’m sorry...I’ve felt guilty all week at not phoning you.’

‘Well I was going to come round and pour melted cheese through your letter box,’ I counter, but of course I couldn’t have done this, as Mr. Cagey has never given me his home address.

‘I suppose you have a whole list of creative vendettas to draw on,’ he comments fearfully. ‘Nothing as mundane as cutting up my ties…’

The conversation carries on in this vein but by the end of it, we have another date arranged. I've agreed to let him take me out, and somehow this time, I think we’ll make it. I feel so happy I could fly.

The children arrive, eat, play and leave, and remaining on my high, I get ready for the evening.

I drive to the station and park the car where I can see the exit. Cute Face arrives on time and I see him clocking another woman. He looks like he might dive back down the tube as she’s a dog and I can tell by his uncomfortable body language that he thinks she might be me.

I bound out of the car and cross the road, and his relief is evident. We kiss Hallo and he hands me a carrier bag which contains a bottle of Taittinger. Nice one. When he’d asked me this morning if I preferred red or white, I told him to surprise me. He has.

We have a couple of drinks at the Elgin then go home as planned to watch TV.

We make kir royales with the Taittinger and once we’ve finished those, I liberate some peach and raspberry schnapps shots from the freezer. I then send him into the kitchen to concoct a toxic cocktail into which he throws rum, vodka, amaretto, brandy and fruit juice. For someone who doesn’t drink, I’m doing a passable impression of a very boozy floozy.

I put on some Bon Jovi and we crash around the living-room in what we think is dancing but which is, in fact, bumping into things. This isn’t clever, as my furniture - and I – bruise quite easily.

He then decides he fancies some more champagne and without asking, he raids my fridge and opens the nice, cold bottle of Moët I’d been saving for a special occasion. (I can’t be sure that this is not it...)

We throw the bottle back and forth to each other, spilling a fair amount on the settee and carpet. I suddenly think I’m going to throw up and rush to the loo, but the nausea passes and I lurch back into the living-room and change the music to the Pointer Sisters.

The neighbours will surely appreciate our authenticity as we obey the order to Jump!

At around 11 p.m. having had no dinner and enough booze to sink the Bismarck, we stagger like drunken sailors into the bedroom where we embark on an orgy of rampant sex.

I can’t remember the finer details of this fuck-athon except to say that I really enjoyed it.

And it goes on for a very long time.

And apart from a Cute Face, Cute Smile, Cute Body and Cute Bum, he has a Huge Cock.

HUGE!

THE DAILY MALE - continues...6.10.08

2008-10-05T15:04:00.000-07:00

I buzz the postman in and he climbs the stairs and delivers unto me a small square parcel. There are no clues on the label or the packaging as to who this might be from, but I slash the tape impatiently with my trusty Stanley knife, and rip off the outer wrapping.

As curiosity courses through me and my inner kitten squeals and hides beneath the sofa, a stylish, little Myla box reveals itself (think Agent Provocateur with added lady).

A slow smile tickles the corners of my mouth as I carefully unwrap the tissue paper to reveal a beautiful ivory satin lingerie bag with a hand-curled loop and button clasp in tangerine silk.

Inside is an exquisite strapless bra with matching lace panties. I don’t think anyone has ever sent me lingerie before. Bought it for me, fastened it on me, peeled it off me, but sent it to me through the post? Never. Not in my entire life. A stiff little card reads:

Enjoy. From New York Boy.

I was right. This is from Rugby Player and it's his much anticipated gift. I shake my head in amazement and grin widely. I am still able to do this as I have not, as yet, succumbed to Botox.

I rattle my proverbial pedestal and CC, precariously balanced at the top, crashes to the kitchen floor. Other wannabee mountaineers ascending the rock face of my affections stop in their tracks, look up, look down and wonder if it’s worth the rest of the climb.

Rugby Player now stands proudly at the top, arms folded triumphantly across his broad and manly chest, one foot planted firmly on a heart-shaped boulder. For the moment - for me - he is The Man.

I text him an effusive thank you and rip my clothes off to try the undies on. Although glamorous in the extreme, the bra is not a great fit, so I go to the Myla website and establish that I can change it. No point in keeping something I can’t wear, is there?

He’s spent £95 on some ecru lace dental floss whose company slogan is 'Accessories for your Sex Life' on the off chance that this may improve his. Unlikely if he’s in New York and I’m in London, but if a plane ticket in the sharp end of a jumbo jet was forthcoming, I could be persuaded.

At lunchtime, I get a text from Tom Cat saying he enjoyed our meeting last night, swiftly following by one from Cute Face getting ever more excited about our date tomorrow. He tells me he’s going for a haircut and I order him not to as I like my toyboys a tad unkempt. He insists he needs the haircut anyway and promises to maintain a degree of scruffiness.

We carry on texting silliness throughout the afternoon which could be why I’m developing RSI in my right thumb. Or it could be arthritis. At my age, anything is possible.

Rugby Player texts me back to say he landed in London early this morning and has six hours to kill until his next flight out again. Now I could have just left this alone, because God knows, I’ve got enough going on plus a stack of work to do, but because it’s Friday and it’s 3.30 p.m., I feel like knocking off early. So I do...

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

2008-09-27T17:09:00.000-07:00

Flash Gordon sends me a choice of dates when he’s free to see me. None of them suit my diary, and I’m not really sure I want to see him again anyway. He is a nice person and a real little gent, but he doesn’t float my boat which is currently high and dry in the dockyard. I let him down gently telling him an ex has reappeared on the scene.

These bloody exes of yours, he texts back. I can’t even get a drink with you let alone waltz into your life and hog you forever. If you gave me a chance you’d forget all those fairycakes.

I’d forgotten I’d used this excuse before. If you’re going to lie you need a good memory. Or a d.o.b. that doesn’t being 194…

He forges on regardless:

All I want is to cook you a meal, tell you all my crap jokes, scrub your back in the bath and give you a deep tissue massage that will take your breath away.

Now this sounds like a pretty irresistible offer no matter which way you cut it. I mean when was the last time a good-looking 28-year old offered you such a teaser of temptations? I may allow him his way at some point, but for the foreseeable future, I think I can hold out.

At 7.35 I go and meet Tom Cat at the Elgin. Not much to look at but charming, polite and easy company nevertheless. In the present circumstances, this should be sufficient, but my Fit Bloke Alert doesn’t go off, so I know it ain’t going nowhere.

We have a couple of drinks and he removes a stack of papers from his man-bag. It’s the book he’s trying to write which he wants me to look at. Writers don’t really like looking at other people’s work, unless it’s truly appalling.

As Gore Vidal said: Whenever one of my friends succeeds, a little something in me dies.I

scan some of it, and it’s not bad – a tad overwritten, but about love and angst from the male perspective which is interesting. And guess what? Men have feelings too, but frankly, who gives a damn?

I give a critical appraisal of his style, offer a few pointers I learned way back in creative writing class, and hand it back to him. I wish him lots of luck. I know how hard it is trying to write a book. I also know he’ll never finish it.

We go for a Thai meal and a little vodka-fuelled chemistry sparks between us. He pays me loads of compliments but that’s just sycophancy and when he asks if there’s somewhere we can ‘go for coffee’ when we finish eating he adds:

‘You live near here, don’t you?’ with a most unsubtly raised eyebrow.

I definitely do not want to invite him home. I tell him there’s a café round the corner that serves good coffee, but I don’t want one, and he rescinds his request graciously.

As we leave the restaurant, he offers me his cashmere sweater because it’s chilly outside, and as we walk to my car he slips his arm through mine like an old pal. He’s rather sweet and chivalrous but…no bells. Not even a distant chimelet.

We peck a kiss goodbye; I get into my car and he walks off towards the station. One more Hallo…one more Goodbye. I'm tired and am really looking forward to getting into bed. Alone.

Friday. I trust you noticed I hardly mentioned CC at all yesterday and my philosophy of hoping he doesn’t call me so I can get over him quicker seems to be working. That and the Bach Flower Remedy that my daughter, Lily, prepared for me. She gave me a consultation last week while I was on a real CC low, and I found myself talking to her like she was a shrink or something.

She has a calm and caring way of discovering what ails you and I told her all sorts of personal stuff that maybe I shouldn’t have, what with her being ‘our kid’ ‘n all... When I'd explained the situation and my mixed-up feelings, she went off to prepare a potion. She added wild hawthorn for anxiety, walnut for melancholy, marjoram root for self-determination and arsenic in case none of the above worked. I’ve taken eight drops so far and I feel better already.

Around noon, I’m sitting at my desk tapping away and the postman rings. Twice.

I'm not expecting anything and then I remember...Rugby Player told me to look out for a parcel...

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

2008-09-16T01:24:00.000-07:00

Wednesday. An eventful day in Toy Town. I text Eurotrash to firm up Thursday and he telephones me to say that although:

‘Ze answer is Yah, it is in fact Ney’ because:

a) he’s zhtill got ze zore zroat, und
b) he’s also got ze zore finger which does not heal.

Eeuwwhh! I’d better steer well clear of him. He sounds like a walking infection.

I’m just about to hang up when he suddenly asks: ‘Zo how ij your zex life?’ like it’s any of his bloody business. I don’t reply but turn the question around and ask him about his.

‘Not much!’ he replies which I find hard to believe.

He apologizes again and says he’d love to see me ‘ven I’m vell again.’

It seems like men are apologizing to me a lot lately. This, of course, could be because they’re always guilty, unexpectedly turning up with ‘I've been fucking' flowers as my girlfriend with the wandering husband likes to call them.

Thursday. Tom Cat telephones. He sounds incredibly posh. He also went to the same school as me, which is pretty random, although we did attend some forty-five years apart! It’s unlikely that we shared any teachers but the school dinners were probably the same. He’s not coming to the gig tonight after all, as he wants to spend time working on a book he’s writing about sex and dating from the male perspective. We may discuss a collaboration and meet up tomorrow, which I now have free due to Eurotrash having syphilis and/or gonorrhaea.

I get a message from a newcomer on toyboywarehouse. He has a very Cute Face:

Hiya pretty lady! he writes. Fancy meeting up for a drink this weekend?

This could not have come at a better time as I’ve just been let down by Blonde Best Friend who I thought I was seeing on Saturday. Cute Face and I text on and off for the rest of the day, which is mildly entertaining but doesn’t mean to say I haven’t had some heart-rending moments vis à vis CC. It just means to say I haven’t mentioned them…

I am fully aware that all this so-called male attention doesn't amount to a hill of beans, and just as I’m about to go out for the evening with some proper people with proper jobs and proper modes of behaviour, Oxbridge phones. His number always comes up on my screen as ‘Unknown’ and my heart trips a beat as I think it might be CC. I forgot I was meant to be hoping he wouldn’t call.

When I hear the strange voice, I imagine for a moment it is him, but the voice gives its name and the name is wrong as is the accent. I can hardly remember who Oxbridge is in my life. Have we met? No we haven't and I don’t want to make small-talk with him any more. Maybe I should stop giving my phone number to strangers but then again, life would not be as rich as it is now!

I go to the gig at the Hope & Anchor in Upper Street. There is no talent there to speak of, except the singer, J.B. Newman, who is awesome. I remember with affection the night I met MLP at the Good Ship in Kilburn when we were listening to the same music as JB is playing tonight.

During the evening I exchange another few texts with Cute Face. He obviously fancies himself as a bit of a comedian because when I tell him I’m at the gig, he comments:

You’re really quite trendy for somehow who grew up in Victorian times, aren’t you?

I am affronted at his effrontery but rise to the challenge by telling him my horse-drawn carriage will arrive soon to take me home as it's past my bedtime and I need my Horlicks. He better not say anything ageist to my face though. That would be dangerous…

He then sends me a text obviously meant for someone else which reads:

No mate, she doesn’t seem nuts. Looks well pretty actually. I’ll just see how it goes I guess.

It’s funny that his mate thought I might be nuts…

I'm fairly convinced of it.

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

2008-09-08T03:31:00.000-07:00

Monday. I decide to adopt a new philosophy. If CC doesn’t call today, I shall be relieved. I shall pray it’s not him every time the phone rings, and be thankful when it isn’t. I shall start from this moment to get over this man ‘cos if I see him again, and I like him again, and then he doesn’t phone me again, I’ll have to travel this rotten road one more time and frankly, I don’t fancy the journey.

So now I’m glaring at my mobile phone muttering: "Don’t you dare ring, you bastard, stay well away from me, take your monkey business elsewhere…"

Meanwhile, like an army to the rescue, a whole tangle of toyboys get in touch, one after the blessed other.

I’ve got Flash Gordon asking if I want to have a drink after work on Friday.

I’ve got Rough Stuff on his daily mission to seduce, asking if I’m free at all this week.

I’ve got a blast from the past in the form of the Arrogant Rugby Player temporarily back from New York claiming to be two stone lighter, and advising me to look out for the postman. (Remember that little something he threatened to send me? Well I don’t know if you received it, but I certainly didn’t…)

He bangs on about how much I excite him and asks if I am 'someone who likes to be spoilt in lifestyle terms and indulged sexually.' What is it with these guys? Are they all on drugs or something? His PR campaign sounds like an advert for a Country House Hotel Sex Spa and I tuck the idea behind my ear for later as a possible future business venture.

I ignore him however. I’ve heard it all before, mate. Either shit or get off the pot.

My non-reply eggs him on and just as I'm starting to think he's a right jerkoff, he suddenly suggests taking me to dinner at L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon, which turns him into a right jerkoff with taste.

Joel Robuchon is a squillion-star French chef with a new London restaurant I’ve been dying to go to, so I rescind my ignoration and we make an arrangement for three weeks hence which I expect him to either cancel or forget.

I get another message from a newcomer we'll call TomCat, who looks rather tasty and is something in the City. He steams right in asking when we can meet, so I make a tentative date for a drink tomorrow night in Islington, as my friend’s son is gigging again, and I have a latent desire to recreate the night MLP and I first met.

Tomorrow I’ll text Eurotrash to see if he wants to come over and play, so as far as the rest of this week is concerned, CC can go and fuck himself.

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

2008-08-29T16:31:00.000-07:00

In a weird way I manage to compartmentalize. This interlude with Eurotrash in no way affects my feelings for CC which are in a totally separate box marked PARANOID FIXATION OF 2008.

If CC comes up trumps, all bets are off but I am hedging those bets by keeping the other horses in my stable fed and watered and exercising them around the paddock at regular intervals to ensure their readiness for riding if, as, and when required.

My masculine side endorses this behaviour, while my feminine side weeps and wails and rents its clothing.

Sunday. I have lunch with my family and power walk two miles around Regent’s Park with Calm Best Friend. This solves nothing but makes my calves ache rather pleasingly.

Monday. I finally meet Rough Stuff for dinner. He looks like a cross between Ray Winstone and Alec Baldwin both of whom I fancy, but I don’t fancy him. He’s a working-class geezer who appears to have broken into a Jermyn Street Gentleman’s Outfitters and walked off dressed in the spoils.

He’s hard-nosed and savvy with a film script life story, but the cockney accent really jars with me. Although I’m attentive enough, all I can think about is:

When I wake up in the morning, I’ll be seeing CC ‘tomorrow’.

Unless, of course, he bottles it…

Tuesday. Well whaddya know? I should have gone down to William Hill and bet my flat on it - I could’ve retired on the proceeds.

Didn't I know it? Didn't I FUCKING KNOW IT. I switch my mobile on at 8.47 a.m. and there are two texts. One’s a ‘Good Morning, Princess’ from Rough Stuff, the other is a voicemail alert.

I dial 901 and YUP! it’s CC ‘postponing’ our dinner date.

The fucking, wanking, cunting, shitting, cock sucking bastard has blown me out. To give myself time to absorb this, I go to the fridge and check the sell-by date on the cheese I bought for the infamous fondue. It’s good for another couple of weeks. I may boil his head in it. But not until it’s gone off.

He’s left me a jolly upbeat message, though, considering he’s a manic depressive, bipolar, emotionally-arrested, dysfunctional nutcase. His voice mail is positively bubbly which I find very annoying. How dare he sound normal when he’s calling to cancel me?

What’s happened is, he tells me cheerfully once he’s commented on what a beautiful day it is, (TOSSER!) that he’s got into the office and checked his diary and found that he’s double-booked tomorrow evening. He’s heading up a think tank for his senior management to institute a media-related strategy whereby high-profile hunter gatherers can brainstorm their passive-aggressive admin exec counterparts.

Oh for the love of Christ, get over yourself, you twat.

He does however apologize four times and offers an immediate alternative, suggesting that in order to make it up to me, instead of me cooking, he’ll take me out instead.

Cold Comfort Farm, but at least he didn’t say: ‘…so I’ll see you around’.

Funnily enough, I’m not actually that devastated because I know that once tomorrow has come and gone, I’ll be back to square one again with nothing to look forward to.

I replay the message about eight times but I don’t read anything more onerous into it except that which I presume to be the truth. It’s too convoluted to be otherwise even from a half-baked potato like him. I decide not to reply just yet. A little mind game, methinks.

I compose texts in my head then go to a business meeting which takes up the rest of the morning. At 1.30 p.m. when he’s almost certain to be at lunch, I text to say that I’ve received his message and when shall we re-schedule for?

I purposely ask a question in order to provoke an answer but none is forthcoming.

I wait all day to hear from him until I can stand it no longer, and at 8.45 p.m. I call him back. It goes straight to voicemail.

I say ‘Hi, it’s me. Call when you’re free’ in Voice no. 32 : Bright and Breezy but Three Steps Away from a Shotgun. I get no reply.

Yet again with this man, I'm left feeling sad, let down and disappointed. I’m even starting to piss myself off never mind anyone else, and all this for a person who’s about as much use to me as a glacier mint is to a polar bear.

I beat myself up a little bit more thinking I should have called him back this morning, when the matter was fresh in his mind and his diary on his desk in front of him.

Now I’ve used up my text credit and instead of a mind game, I have to play the much reviled waiting game. I can’t help thinking that he’s obviously ‘not that into me…’

I play around on a dating site and make arrangements to meet a 23-year-old which cheers me up no end.

THE DAILY MALE - continues...17/08/08

2008-08-16T16:50:00.000-07:00

We have a slightly stilted conversation about what we’ve both been doing (I’ve been staying home every night pining, obviously!) and he’s been mostly working late. Thrilling.

When the conversation looks like it’s running out of gas, I leap into the driving seat and slam my foot on the accelerator.

‘I’m thinking of making a fondue one night,’ I say, winging it, 'the one we never had on holiday, remember? It would be a shame to go to all that trouble just for one, so how about you come over and share it with me?’

Expecting a hesitation or downright refusal, I am staggered when he answers:

‘I should really take you out.’

My heart bounds like Baryshnikov across the dining-table and lands elegantly atop the sideboard.

‘I’ll do the fondue this time and you can take me out the time after how about next Thursday?’ I end the sentence gasping for breath.

He can’t do Thursday, I can’t do Wednesday so we make an arrangement for twelve days hence.

That’s Twelve Days.

Hence.

‘7.30?’ he asks, as if he actually intends to keep this date.

‘Perfect!’ I reply and hang up.

I look around to see if a bunch of red-nosed clowns aren’t pissing themselves laughing behind my back but they’re not. I walk over to the hall mirror and kiss myself full on the mouth, then I turn on my heels and moonwalk backwards down the corridor until I reach my bedroom.

Did you see what I just did there? I ask the curtains. They stare back at me impassively as if to say: 'What?'

For the next twelve days, I spend a lot of time singing If Tomorrow Never Comes. ‘Looking forward to’ is the sweetest foreplay. I contemplate what mood he might prefer to find me in: light and fluffy? Deep and serious? Sexy and seductive? Will he keep the date or suddenly decide he has to go salmon fishing on the banks of the Clyde?

Time drags along like a half-dead donkey and every time the phone rings, I’m convinced it’s him calling to cancel. Notwithstanding this, I carry on planning the menu like I’ve got Gordon, Jamie and Heston coming to dinner.

Wednesday.

I’m in the local wine bar with my laptop when I get an email from Eurotrash. He wants his art book back. I tell him I’ll drop it off when I’m next passing but he suggests picking it up one night after work.

I decide to drop the book back there and then. I go home, tart myself up a bit and drive to the gallery.

Loud music is playing and he's absorbed on the computer so he doesn’t look up as I walk in. I place the book down on his oversized desk and slide it slowly towards him. He jumps when he notices it, clutches his chest, and stares up at me. The blueness of his eyes is astounding. He bounds out of his chair and comes round to hug me so tightly I can hardly breathe.

‘I heffen’t herd vrom you in such a long vile’ he complains.

‘Ditto!’ I answer. ‘And why should you hear from me? You virtually stood me up last time.'

‘I really vasn’t vell,…’ he vhines.

‘Self-inflicted, by all accounts.’ I retort. ‘No sympathy there, I’m afraid.’

‘No, really… I had zuch a zore zroat. I shtill don’t feel right…’

I raise one eyebrow and walk off to look at the new installations. He follows me and grabs my arm.

‘I like the vay you’re so angry’ he breathes, his lips almost touching mine. ‘Like it vas important to you…’

‘I’m not angry’ I snap. ‘I just don’t like being dumped at the last minute, that’s all.’

He shrugs apologetically and carries on stroking my arm.

‘Vy ish it…’ he goes on, ‘…zat I always get so horny venever I see you?’

‘Cos you're a dirty bastard and I'm hot!' I answer and I leave the gallery with an extra swing in my step.

No sooner am I out on the street than he texts me: YOU ARE SO DELICIOUS XXXX

'So come up and eat me sometime' I reply and go home to do the ironing.

I'M BACK! 08/08/08

2008-08-09T13:18:00.000-07:00

Hi readers everywhere!

Thanks for being patient with me while I toiled away on the cliff face of literature (a lovely terrace in Andalusia...) working on my novel Blood on the Sand.

I'll keep you posted as to how that's going but for now on with The Daily Male:

Friday. I set off for a couple of days away with an old friend to his country cottage in Devon. PT and I have known each other for many years. When we first met, he made a bit of a play for me, but I wasn’t attracted to him in that way and he seems to have accepted it. He does still try it on occasionally but I slap him down affectionately and he takes it in good part. I think...

As we are closeted in his car for the long drive West, I tell him all about CC. He listens attentively but doesn’t express much, except to say: ‘He sounds like trouble’.

The weekend is pleasant enough. It’s always good to get out of town as long as you know you’re coming back.

On the Sunday afternoon, I return to London by train as PT is staying on. I’ve got the steak date with Eurotrash to look forward to but as the train is chugging through Berkshire, the trashy bastard texts to tell me he’s ‘not feeling very well’, having had ‘a large one’ the night before.

How fucking dare you! I think to myself. You knew you had to be on top form for Sunday night! I could have stayed on in the country and now I've got nothing to do when I get home. I consider hurling myself into the path of an oncoming express, but Mr. Branson realises this sort of thing might happen (he obviously knows men like Eurotrash personally) so he's sealed up all the windows.

My disgruntledness of the bloody awfulness of Sundays in general, and cancelled dates on Sunday nights in particular, reaches an all time high. I console myself with a cosy, little homily: Life sucks and then you die.

I draft some texts to CC to pass the time on the rest of journey. Writing to him is like talking to him…

My darling, I haven’t slept for nights. (not strictly true). I do not wish to harass you emotionally (strictly true) but is there any way we could stay in touch that you would be comfortable with? I can’t bear the thought of losing you forever… I miss you every day...(totally true).

I save these in my drafts folder.

Wednesday. Unable to keep my counsel any longer, I send CC the favourite from among my drafted texts:

I’ve waited with the noose around my neck for you to kick the chair away. Please either do that or come and lift me down.

After several hours, I receive the much-dreaded reply:

I’m really sorry lovely Wendy but I have read your memoir and I know that this perhaps overly private and sensitive man cannot do this. I wish I could but I can’t. Sorry sorry sorry. Your adventure is bold, courageous and I respect what you are doing xxx

I only wrote The Toyboy Diaries to inspire other women that all things are possible no matter your age. I never expected it to come back and bite me on the bum.

Through a mist of tears, I text back:

Sweetheart, I am devastated... please don't judge me by the contents of a book. I am worth more than that... And I am.

I get no answer.

The massacre of my last vestige of hope leaves me lost without a cause. I feel like a rat swimming against the tide in a maelstrom of muck of my own making. Now what? Now what? I feel like my life has turned sepia. Where did all the colour go?

Another week begins and unable one night when I am home alone, I decide I have to phone him. I psych up myself for at least an hour, composing disjointed sentences the words of which shatter into a crazy alphabet which swims around in my head.

Finally, hardly making any sense, I dial his number. It rings a few times and goes to voice mail.

‘H-hallo?’ I stutter. ‘It’s…er… Wendy?…er…I’m…er… not sure if I’m allowed to do this?…Am I still a…er…friend or an ex-friend…? (nervous laugh) I just wanted to say… I think about you often and I’d really like to know how you are? You see… I…er…I really miss you? …and I care about you?…and er…it would be nice to hear from you?… to know you’re OK…?

I have no idea why I’m talking Australian? but I know I sound vulnerable and insecure, and this is not an act. What I’ve created by making the call is renewed hope…the hope that he will call me back.

Had there been a brick wall within bashing distance, I may just as well have impacted my weary head against it but within a few minutes, my mobile rings and it’s him!

APOLOGIES FOR THE INTERRUPTION!!

2008-07-28T14:37:00.000-07:00

Dearest Readers,

I hope you will forgive me this hiccup in the continuing saga of "The Daily Male".

I have taken some time out to work on a novel, an idea I´ve had for some time which simply had to be released. I´ve hidden myself away in Southern Europe but I shall return to the story in a couple of weeks, I promise.

Thanks for your comments and your patience - I love knowing you are out there even if we´ve never met...

Have great summers, everyone, and I´ll be back soon.

Very best wishes and thanks for reading.

Wendy x

THE DAILY MALE - continues...03/07/08

2008-07-03T11:17:00.000-07:00

Sunday. I’m worried that I might be turning into a shark. The urge to keep moving lest I die is bordering on manic. Not content with having had 'knowledge' of four different men in the past two weeks (perhaps in Essex that’s the national chaverage) I’ve been lured out by a fifth this afternoon who’s contacted me on a dating website.

He’s a character actor, been in The Bill (hasn’t everyone?) and sounds like a bit of a geezer. I’m meeting him in Regent’s Park at 4.30 p.m. for tea. Before that I’m meeting a girlfriend for a walk and after that I’m going to the cinema with a male mate.

Now there’s no problem with this per se, but shouldn’t one be staying home occasionally and sorting out one’s knicker drawer? Or learning how to use the new DVD – G-d forbid one should ever want to be in of an evening watching one?

I think about CC, cast in the role of Hanging Judge, deciding my fate as he reads the fruits of my nefarious labours. He probably hasn’t got beyond the first chapter – or even the back cover. He'd have thrown it straight onto the fire dressed in an exorcist’s robes to expunge the corruption contained therein.

The date with Rough Stuff gets cancelled at the last minute and I am somewhat relieved, though this leaves my brain excess time to bubble away like a witch’s cauldron, to which I keep adding extra frogs, newts, toads and bats.

Tuesday. Something in my genetic make-up, or maybe my upbringing, will not allow me to accept defeat. A long line of oppressed ancestors battled their way out of Russia, Poland and Lithuania and dispersed to the four corners of the globe where they not only survived, but made a go of it. I was conditioned from an early age to strive for success and this ethos has dogged yet encouraged me through all of life’s situations.

Although I walked out of two marriages because there were insurmountable problems, I gave them both my best shot and for this reason, I am still determined to fight for CC.

I cannot understand if someone has a chance for love that they wouldn’t embrace it with open arms? I mean… you’re a long time dead… especially if he genuinely thinks he’s only got a few years left...you’d have thought he’d want to fill those years with all the unbridled joy that’s on offer.

Or maybe he doesn’t see me as ‘unbridled joy’…maybe he just sees me as ‘major aggravation’.

Unfortunately, deep in my soul, I know where he’s coming from. His fear of rejection, fear of getting hurt, fear of my infidelity, fear of having his heart ripped out and thrown to the wolves, are all very valid terrors. And I’m getting far too carried away with this less than ‘magnificent’ obsession.

Maybe I need to take a step back and write myself a reality cheque.

Wednesday. Eurotrash texts me and we make a date for the steak fest for Sunday night. Him being a bit Transylvanian ‘n all, I hope he means steak and not stake.

THE DAILY MALE - continues...20/06/08

2008-06-20T16:27:00.000-07:00

Before I know it, I’m running a bubble bath, lighting candles, opening a bottle of Cava (I'm not wasting Champagne on him!) and selecting the appropriate music.

Drunk and disorderly, we both get naked and slide into the warm womb of water where we slither all over each other like a merman and his maid.

Despite his shortish stature - no more than 5’9” - Eurotrash is sporting an impressive organ which pokes up out of the water like a 'peniscope'. The invitation is irresistible and I lower my head and sink my mouth around it. He groans appreciatively and massages my feet.

We soap each other's bodies and talk and laugh and it feels like someone has changed my batteries. Normal service has been resumed.

We get out of the bath and step naked onto my little balcony. The night is mild and heady and he wraps his arms around me and pulls me back against him, attempting to enter me from behind.

I’m not that drunk and there’s no way we’re having full penetrative unsafe sex. I don’t trust him. I also have no idea where he’s been and, more to the point, I remind myself that I am trying to stay faithful. To what, or more precisely, to whom, is debatable.

Eurotrash doesn’t insist, so we lie down on the bed and just fool around. When he leaves, we’re still laughing. No mental anguish is involved, no demands, no commitment. We arrange for him to come over again some time and he promises to cook me a 'fat, juicy steak'. I am disproportionately excited about this.

Friday. Despite the brilliant fun I had last night which certainly helped to blow the cobwebs away, I still haven’t heard a dickie bird from You Know Who. Brad Pity ups the ante by bringing our date forward to tonight. I weaken to the point of horizontal by inviting him to come straight over without bothering with the ‘drink at the Elgin’ first. Well we have met and I know what I'm dealing with.

My attempt to have a zipless fuck fails. Guilt and remorse and nostalgia make uncomfortable bedfellows. CC said he couldn’t have sex without love and although I can and often do, it happens that I rather wouldn’t.

THE DAILY MALE - continues...13/06/08

2008-06-13T16:21:00.000-07:00

Thursday. He texts to thank me for the meal.

‘It was very kind of you. I’ll read the book and see how I feel’ and then I have an epiphany!

HANG ON A MINUTE, I think to myself. You’ll see how you feel?? Who the hell do you think you are - The Lord High Executioner? I have to wait and worry all weekend while you see how reading my story makes you feel?

At least I never tried to dupe anyone, pretending to be someone I'm not, making them fall for me then telling them I can’t cope with it.What sort of a man is that? So afraid of dying he’s forgotten how to live? Worried about falling in love in case the excitement proves too much? Hiding away like a hermit in case, God forbid, I might enjoy myself? And who is he to judge me anyway?

This mental outburst helps me to put things into perspective. Of course I still care about him and would love to try to make it work between us, but if he’s always going to doubt me and never going to trust me, it has no chance of even getting off the starting block.

I spend the weekend on a self-inflicted death row, the condemned woman who awaits the decision of the hanging judge. Right now, the jury’s out and the defendant awaits an almost certain Guilty verdict.

Tuesday. I still haven’t heard from him. I compose but do not send a variety of texts ranging from furious to flippant to frustrated. This helps on a scale of zero to not at all.

Thursday. I am looking after my little granddaughters which is like trying to tame a pair of electric eels, and although it’s a great distraction, I still manage to fret about CC the entire time. Once I’ve bathed them, fed them, read to them and put them to bed, I doodle out a few texts which includes making a further date with Brad Pity. After the rejection by CC, I need to re-affirm my desirability.

Friday. Having decided to give Eurotrash a further run for his money, I visit him at the gallery. The minute I walk in he’s all over me like a second skin. He has a delivery to make near my home so we decide to go for a drink, which turns into a second and then a third by which time we’re hungry and need to eat.

It’s a beautiful evening and we're sitting outside in the patio garden of Le Cochonnet. I feel relaxed and liberated which makes a pleasant change. Eurotrash is entertaining company. He makes me giggle and although I know he’s a wrong ‘un, somehow, we fit.

We discuss a Shakespeare play he's seen recently of which he could not follow the plot. I remember a book I have called Shakespeare for Idiots or something and offer to lend it to him. This book is on my shelf at home which happens to be… just around the corner. He says:

"Veel get it now, shall ve?" and I say: "OK".

I know exactly where this invitation is going, and as you might expect, Shakespeare is forgotten the minute we walk in my door.

THE DAILY MALE - continues...08/06/08

2008-06-07T16:59:00.000-07:00

To lighten the mood and erase the conversation that has just taken place, I tell him I have theatre tickets for next week and I ask if would he like to come with me. I am resolutely convinced of my power to re-invent us as a fully functioning couple.

With scant interest, he asks what play it is, and I tell him it’s an Indian version of Midsummer Night’s Dream. He pulls a face like I’ve just poured a very hot curry down his trousers, and says his attention span is rather limited and the Bard, therefore, is not someone he can sit through.

While still desperate to repair the situation, I am becoming mildly exasperated. Surely it would be easier to just give up? I question my motives. Maybe it’s the challenge that drives me on. I’ve had men not wanting me before, but for some reason, I want this one more than I ever wanted any of them. And I do want to help him; I doubt he’s ever had someone who really cares about him like I do.

We continue our disjointed dialogue which winds blindly through a complex maze of dark passages and alleyways until it comes to a grinding halt somewhere north of nowhere. It’s like I’m talking Icelandic and he’s answering in Cantonese.

Reverting to my default setting of Jewish mother, I suggest we have something to eat. He admits to being hungry and seems surprised and grateful that I should offer to cook for him, like no-one’s ever done this before.

I try to get him to help me in the kitchen to create some sort of positive dynamic between us, but he doesn’t even know how to slice a mushroom, so I end up doing it all myself.

I rustle up a smoked salmon and avocado starter and make a risotto which he appears to enjoy. At least something has pleased him about tonight. The hostess, sadly… pas beaucoup…

Over dinner, he perks up a bit and talks about his teenage years and how he used to play in a band, but not once during the evening is there any of the lightness of spirit or humorous piquancy of the holiday passing between us.

And then it’s 10.30 p.m. and he says he has to go. He needs his sleep so he asks me to call him a taxi and the minute it arrives, he leaves.

I get a half-hearted hug at the door, do the washing-up and go to bed feeling melancholy and hopeless. The whole emotional investment of the past two weeks seems to be producing no return.

The Pet Shop Boys sing me sleep, their lyrics strangely appropriate to my darkening mood:

When I look back upon my life,
It’s always with a sense of shame
I’ve always been the one to blame…

THE DAILY MALE - continues...02/06/08

2008-06-02T15:51:00.000-07:00

‘I cannot allow myself to fall in love with you. I will get terribly hurt. And…’ he drops his voice so I can hardly hear him, ‘I cannot have sex without love…’

I take onboard what he’s saying, resenting the fact that it was fine for him to have ‘sex without love’ just a few days ago.

I suddenly decide to give him a proof copy of The Toyboy Diaries. Maybe it would work like homeopathy – treat the sickness with the sickness. I take one off the shelf and drop it into his lap.

‘Instead of imagining the worst, why don’t you read it?’ I suggest. ‘It’s nowhere near as bad as you may think, especially since most of it is made up!’

My nose grows by at least an inch and my tone is possibly half an octave harsher than usual. I’m still smarting from the No Sex Please – We’re Skittish comment. He recoils as he lifts the book gingerly off his lap and holds it at arm’s length as if it’s a ticking time bomb.

‘Please don’t throw things at me,’ he bleats ‘and don’t shout…’

I apologize, and consider that, should we ever by any remote chance get it together, I might have to temper everything I do around him: my voice, my mood, my personality, my behaviour. Christ! Do I really want to live like that?

He turns the book over frowning deeply as he reads the back cover. I stand there chewing my thumb, like a schoolgirl whose father is reading a letter from the Headmaster informing him that she’s been caught in the toilets giving the gym teacher a blow-job.

‘How can it possibly work out between you and me?’ he asks despairingly having scanned the best of the worst of my story. ‘You’ll always be looking over my shoulder for the next 19-year old!’

‘I will not!’ I cry defensively. ‘That affair happened twenty years ago and I’m so over all that now…’

How far can you bend the truth before it snaps?

THE DAILY MALE - continues...23/5/08

2008-05-22T16:03:00.000-07:00

Monday. I don’t hear from him all day. I leave him be, it’s his first day back at work, as it is mine. In spite of last night’s heavy and disturbing conversation, I am in denial, convinced he will reverse his decision, still on some kind of holiday high.

I have a stab at doing some work, make some phone calls and bring my girlfriends up to speed (mostly leaving out the Hot Frog fuck fest).

I think about CC constantly and after a thrashing night of inner torment, I text him.

Miss you a lot. Hope you are OK? : - ( xxx

Several hours pass and eventually he replies.

I have missed you terribly and slept little. I'm pretty sure I am not strong enough for this Xxx

With the imminent release of The Toyboy Diaries, there is a flurry of publicity out there and I cannot stop it. Like Diana’s sister said to her the night before The Royal Wedding: ‘You can’t back out now, Duch…your face is on the tea towels.’

I draft a reply:

Sweetheart, I am devastated and crying as I write. I understand your fears but please can we talk one more time? I couldn’t bear not to see you again. We have a chance for love. Is that not worth a shot? xxx

But I don’t send it.

In the evening, he phones me. He is very somber, his voice flat and monochrome. I somehow manage to persuade him to come over tomorrow night so we can talk face to face.

Wednesday. He calls me several times during the afternoon to tell me he’s running late. Every time I see his name on my screen I’m convinced he’s going to cancel. My two best girlfriends are au fait with the situation, and I have already placed bets with them as to what the evening holds in store. They try to keep my spirits up, but I know what I know. It’s a self-fulfilling prophesy. He’s coming over to tell me that he’s made his final decision. It is going to be over.

And so it comes to pass that he enters my doorway at 7.20 p.m. and slumps down in my tiny tub chair with such a badass body language, I can hardly believe it’s the same person. And no one ever sits in that chair anyway – unless the three-seater sofa has four people on it.

He is too far away from me for a start, and despite his stature of 6’2”, he seems to have imploded, shrunken in on himself as he hunches, withdrawn and anxious, unable or unwilling to make eye contact.

‘What can I do to take us back to last week?’ I plead gently.

He glances at me like he’s never seen me before and quickly looks away.

‘If you like toyboys so much’ he says, expelling the word from his mouth like a bitter taste, ‘what on earth are you interested in me for? I’m forty-six, for God’s sake, practically geriatric…’

‘You’re not!’ I argue. 'I…’

He shakes his head vigorously to show he will not listen.

‘But how would I trust you?’ he asks simply... and I have no answer to that.

THE DAILY MALE - continues...11/05/08

2008-05-11T15:26:00.000-07:00

Over the next few hours, as he lies in the darkness of my womb-like room, the tall, upright, confident, accomplished, funny, genial holiday man disappears and in his place appears an ailing, timid, frightened, emotionally-disabled wreck. I don’t recognize him at all.

He talks about past love affairs which haven’t worked out, deep insecurities, low self-esteem in his work and personal life, hypochondria and as if this weren't enough, an overwhelming conviction that he will die young. A bundle of laughs it ain't...

The most incomprehensible thing he tells me, and what confuses me most of all, is that much as he says it would be easy to fall in love because he finds me ‘lovely, lovely, so very lovely...’ he is afraid in case he becomes addicted. Best case scenario, in my book...someone needs to become addicted but I surely don't want it to be me...(how little I knew at this point...)

He says he is not strong but I think he is actually very strong to make such a conscious and calculated decision. After all, if love was a choice, would any of us choose such exquisite torment?

Based on what I told him about myself that first night we sat talking in the bar, crowing as I am wont to do about conquests past and present, he probably thinks he knows me pretty well. He says he suspects my ability to be faithful as I joked to him on that first night when we exchanged confidences, that as a girlfriend I was probably ‘a very bad bet’.

In some perverse and obtuse way, I was daring him to fall for me even then. But he does not dare. He does not dare at all.

During those long hours as we lay talking in my bed, the daylight, denied by the tightly-closed curtains, turns to dusk, but much as I try, I cannot divert CC from his chosen path. I tell him my past is my past; that I’m ready and willing for a new beginning, that I would very much like it to be with him, but he is resolutely unconvinced.

His weakness is tangible, the depth of his dejection a living presence in my room. I can now smell with an animal’s instinct the scent of fear. In the context of us as a couple, I feel like I’m the alpha male now, as CC sobs silently more than once in my arms. And I know now, though not quite why, how truly damaged this poor man is.

And so my niggling suspicion of something not quite right comes home to roost - not, as I thought, because of his being in another relationship - but because he appears unable to sustain one even with himself.

At midnight, with no further distance for us to travel, he gets up and leaves. My optimistic side thinks I may be able to draw him back, but the pessimist in me has its doubts. And so the scales slide again, for now I am the weaker and he the stronger.

An acerbic one-liner comes to mind:

You can’t make somebody love you. All you can do is stalk them and hope that eventually one day they’ll give in.

I'M BACK!

2008-04-27T11:15:00.001-07:00

Hi Everyone,

Thanks for all your comments and for checking in even though there was nothing new to read. I'll remedy that now!

Since my last blog, I have acquired a new man in my life: the cutest, most darling little grandson. I love him to bits and I hope he grows to be a good boy and an even better man, unlike some we know...

Now, on with the story...

THE DAILY MALE - continues...27/04/08

2008-04-27T11:10:00.000-07:00

Sunday. After a hurried breakfast, we all pile bleary-eyed into the coach and leave the resort at the crack of dawn. The Club Med staff stands sleepily on the roadway waving us goodbye, waiting to greet the next contingent. Hot Frog is not among them. He’ll be getting his beauty sleep, girding his loins for next week’s willing influx.

As we wind down through the mountains, a terrible pain tears through me like I’ve ripped the ligaments around my heart. The euphoria which has driven me through the week crashes to sea level, and a hollow feeling of aloneness assails me. Mine is a life of short-lived loves and long-lived losses.

CC and I have barely acknowledged each other, and although he’s sitting across the aisle, all we’ve shared this morning is one fleeting look. I feel very detached from him. The carefree mood has broken, and that warning bell begins to ring again. I begin to explore what I’d previously denied. What if he’s in a relationship back home? He could even be married. Holiday romances very rarely travel, and although he’s mentioned wanting to see me again, I have no idea when or even if this will happen.

This wrong-foots me when I think of what we’ve shared, and the Grim Reaper escorts me all the way to Annecy.

As the coach rounds the lake however, I get a text from him, and like a broken bird with brand new wings, I flap and fly again.

So many parts of you I need to kiss… Oh. My. God. I couldn’t have written that better if I’d tried. My heart swells and a feeling like warm treacle spreads through my chest.

I SO needed that. I text back. Am feeling weirdly disconnected…xxx

I knew today would be hard for both of us… he replies and for the last two hours of this crazy journey, we send each other funny, tender, sexy messages of love and understanding.

Although we check-in together at Geneva Airport, we fail to get seats side by side. Just before takeoff, unable to stand the uncertainty any longer and terrified of a quick peck goodbye at Gatwick and him disappearing from my life forever, I phone him where he’s sitting somewhere behind me and ask if he will come home with me after we land.

If nothing else…to help carry my case upstairs? Xxx

OK he replies and I could not be happier.

Except for that tiny niggle which I’m trying to ignore...

THE DAILY MALE - continues...03/03/08

2008-03-03T08:34:00.000-08:00

Later that night, having dined with the nonchalant confidence borne of a deliciously-naughty shared secret, CC and I slip away to his room and make love once again. I am bemused at how comfortable I feel with him, and I ignore the distant warning bell pealing intermittently in my subconscious. Despite the rose-tinted ski specs I have been wearing all week, somehow, somewhere, something tells me something about this man is not quite right.

Despite his outgoing humour, he has a quiet introversion about him, yet when we are making love, although he is vocal and convulsive in his climaxes, he withholds something he will not release. I can’t put my finger on it, and I do not want to delve too deeply while we are still in holiday mode.

Saturday. Our last day – most of which CC and I spend together. Hot Frog texts to invite me to his lair later that evening, and rather like a bride going out for one last shag before embracing a life of moral rectitude, I agree.

Realistically, after today, I may never see either of them again, so I’m stocking up my sex bank in case the market crashes.

Knowing we all have a hideously early start next morning, CC makes it easy for me to pursue my nefarious exploit by turning in straight after dinner. He does not invite me to his room and seems already somewhat withdrawn. The alarm bell peals a little louder but I’m on a mission so I ignore it.

CBF and I go back to our room after dinner to finish packing, and I tell her I’ll be popping out for an hour or so. She is so weakened by her bout of sickness, she can barely manage to raise one eyebrow. I’m sure she’s wondering who I’m off to shag this time but is probably past caring. She’s had a lousy week and now she just wants to get home.

I kiss her goodnight, set the alarm for 5 a.m. and on the stroke of midnight, climb the back stairs for the last time up to Hot Frog’s apartment. As if observing myself from a distance, I am disappointed by my weakness of character. Why could I not have just said 'No'? I am devaluing what I feel for CC and mixed in with a misguided feeling of smugness, there lingers the acrid odour of self-disgust.

Hot Frog greets me warmly immediately showing off his new-found kissing technique. The sex is nowhere near as exciting as the first time, and I can’t wait to get out of there. I wish I’d never come tonight. In fact, I didn’t come tonight. But when it’s time to say goodbye, he hugs me tightly and says: ‘It was such a pleajure meeting you. Stay exactly as you are. Tu es magnifique!’ and I go off down the back stairs smiling.

I am still en vacances after all…when all things are permissible…

DEAR FAITHFUL READERS,

I MAY BE SUSPENDING MY BLOG FOR A WHILE AS I WORK ON THE FINAL EDIT OF 'THE DAILY MALE' PRIOR TO IT GOING TO MY PUBLISHERS.

THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR READING AND COMMENTING AND PLEASE FEEL FREE TO SEND ME ANY MESSAGES YOU WISH.

KEEP POPPING IN AS I SHALL POST UP SOME MORE EXPLOITS AS AND WHEN THEY OCCUR!

BEST WISHES,

WENDY

THE DAILY MALE - continues...20/02/08

2008-02-19T16:07:00.000-08:00

CC and I reach his room simultaneously and sit down on the edge of his bed. We hug and kiss like tentative teenagers. He makes no demands or pressures on me; we just enjoy a shared feeling of togetherness and unity. No pulsing passion pushes us forward, just a soothing sense of satisfaction in the closeness of each other’s company.

A feeling of security wafts over me like a warm wind wafts over a lonely moor. With no words spoken, we lie down together and he wraps me in his arms, cradling my body and kissing me tenderly on my face and neck. The atmosphere in the room assumes a dream-like quality, the outside world and everything in it having disappeared under a blanket of freshly-fallen snow. All is silent save for our soft breathing and sweet sighs. Inside our private cocoon, I gaze up at him in wonder.

'I sometimes dream of just being held like this...' I whisper '...held by someone who cares enough about me not to want anything more.'

He gathers me closer and murmurs into my hair:

‘I can do that…’

A surge of true emotion, often concealed yet ever close to the surface, rises up in a racking sob and erupts in a shudder as I press my body deeper into his. I crush my head against his chest and we cling together rocking, like two lost souls riding a terrible storm. I feel vulnerable yet safe, safe and sheltered in his strong, protective arms.

Despite my slapper tendencies, I’m just a woman who wants to be loved. And like any other woman, I sometimes look for this love in all the wrong places…

The lazy afternoon drifts by unhurriedly as he calms me with his kisses, and our slow and subtle exploration of each other inevitably becomes more sexually charged.

With no need for question or answer, CC and I begin to undress each other, a mutual need now to be skin to skin. The gentleness of his touch takes my breath away, and he takes me to a place so blissful and serene, I want to stay there with him forever.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree...

If this is what he is offering, I accept it with all my heart, forsaking all others as long as we both shall live.

When he enters me, it’s like coming home and I welcome him with every fibre of my being.

We do not have sex. We make love.

THE DAILY MALE - continues...16/02/08

2008-02-16T02:30:00.000-08:00

During the afternoon, somewhat to my surprise as I was convinced he’d be on to his next assignation by now, Hot Frog texts to say how much he enjoyed last night and would I be free to meet again after the show on Saturday?. Saturday will be the last night of my holiday. I text him back: ‘Bien sur. Pourquoi pas??’

In the context of men being like buses, ergo three come along all at once, I receive a text from Eurotrash inviting me to the theatre on Saturday night. I haven’t heard from him in weeks and he's probably got to the Ws in his phone book. I leave it for a few hours before replying. I should, of course, have ignored it altogether.

Your text interrupted my champagne lunch. I’m away skiing not back til Sunday.

Let him stick that in his fire and stoke it.

Friday. CBF has had a relapse; she’s been sick again and there’s a whiteout brewing, so I forsake my skiing and stay in the hotel to look after her. Hot Frog texts to say he’s in meetings with the Club Med head honchos all day and CC has gone off to ski for England.

At lunchtime, CC texts me: Some afternoon time alone with you is tempting me off the mountain early. I am battling through a blizzard towards you. 5 mins together would be so perfect…x

Heart pumping with all this male attention, I text back: Why only 5 mins?! and go into the bathroom to change into sexier undies.

I get CBF some pasta from the lunch buffet and take it back to our room. She looks and feels like shite but I make sure she's comfortable and settle her down for her afternoon nap. A curdling combination of exhilaration, anticipation and guilt mingles inside me like guests at some sinister cocktail party. Why does doing so wrong sometimes feel so right?

I bump into some other non-skiers in the hotel bar, reject the offer of a game of Scrabble with a guy who pulled a muscle Day One and has been hobbling around forlornly ever since, and I pace around waiting for some afternoon delight to materialize out of the mist.

CC arrives freshly-showered and changed and studiously ignores me as he helps himself to cheese and biscuits and a cup of coffee. He sits and chats with the others while he eats, then gives me the soupçon of a smile and a surreptitious wink, and we sneak away separately like naughty children escaping the teachers on a school outing.

(If this screwy ski trip is part of some pre-ordained Feast Cycle, I’d better embrace it for all its worth...for when the famine returns, which it will, I’ll only have the memories to feast on).

THE DAILY MALE - continues...10/02/08

2008-02-10T01:46:00.000-08:00

I lick my lips and brush them lightly against his. With a quiet gasp, he gets it in one and mirrors my motion. Our moist mouths slide sensuously across each other’s, our tongues licking, flicking, in a less-is-more kind of way. If I achieve nothing else on this holiday, at least I’ll have sent this delectable Frenchman on his way with one proficient sexual skill.

He unbuttons his shirt and takes my hand, guiding it over to his erect nipple. I rub it lightly and he groans, and presses the length of his body against mine. His hand is flat on my butt, pushing me into him as his increasing hardness strains at the front of his pants. I gyrate against him and he breathes in sharply, whips me around, and with his hands on my hips and his pistol in the small of my back, he walks me towards the sofa, where I sort of collapse in an abandoned heap.

He stretches out alongside me and pulls up my top, cupping my breast while he dips his head to take my nipple in his mouth. The sensation shoots through me like an arrow straight down to my nerve centre and I emit a hot moan of desire.

He flips open the button at my waistband, pulls down my zip and dives his hand inside my trousers, prising aside my panties to find my moist and creamy wetness. I begin to pulsate immediately against his rubbing finger and we rip the rest of our clothes off until we are both naked and rolling around on the sofa. He stands up abruptly, his profile making a perfect hoop-la, and pulls me to my feet. We hurry into the bedroom and down onto his big white bed.

‘I want to kiss you everywhere’ he pants into my mouth.

‘Well no-one’s stopping you…’ I pant back and he tongues his way down my body until he reaches my raised-up mound. He dives between my parted thighs and devours me hungrily. I push and buck against him until I come again and cry out joyously at that special compliment which MLP would never pay me.

Hot Frog eats and licks me avidly until I wriggle away from him, begging for mercy. The sensation is too sharp and sensitive now. He climbs up to sit astride my chest, his huge and urgent cock bobbing just inches from my face. I stick my tongue out and lick its tip. He moves it forward and I suckle on it gently. He withdraws quickly and reaches to his bedside table, rips open a pre-prepared condom, slides it on, wriggles back down me, gets into position and plunges in. With a sharp intake of breath, I throw my head back and grind in rhythm until he cries out, stiffens and comes.

He relaxes off me and wraps me lovingly in his arms, murmuring ‘Chéri, zat was wonder-fool’. I am surprised that he is so tender and gentle. I thought he’d have been a WhamBamGoodGodIsThatTheTime man.

He hugs and strokes me until I say I must go. We put our clothes back on and he sees me politely to the door. We kiss goodnight and I sneak back through the quiet corridors to the safety of my room. CBF stirs but doesn’t wake. With a pang, I think of CC down the corridor...he too must be sleeping soundly.

If he knew what a slag he was getting involved with, I’m sure he’d stop himself right here, right now.

THE DAILY MALE - continues...4/2/08

2008-02-05T14:49:00.000-08:00

As CC shuts his bedroom door behind me and draws me close again, I feel the beginnings of a vibration deep in my cleavage. I pull away from him suddenly, talking loudly to divert his attention.

‘Gosh, your room’s tidy for a bloke!’ I shout, disturbing the romantic vibe between us. He looks slightly puzzled as well he might. Knowing that my phone is set to repeat at one minute intervals, I dive back in for a quick clinch then pull away again just before my tits go off for the second time.

This hokey cokey is hardly conducive to connubial continuation but I’m pretty sure he hasn’t noticed. Feigning a girlish modesty, I say I must go, give him a quick hug, peck him affectionately on both cheeks and reach for the door knob. He stands there like a starving man who’s happened across the only restaurant in town only to be told the kitchen is closed.

I feel very sorry and rather guilty, but tonight I am driven by unfinished business with a bad news bastard who’s had more women that Winner’s had dinners and for some reason, he is my choice du soir.

I hare off to my room to touch up my make-up and when I emerge, I bump headlong into CC who is walking past my door on his way back upstairs. We both stop dead in our tracks and blurt out our excuses at the same time.

‘I need to get some water,’ he explains.

‘I’m going to use the loo down the corridor cos I don’t want to disturb CBF…’ I fluff, and though my heart’s pounding, I silently compliment myself on my quick thinking.

We wiggle a wave at each other and go our separate ways. Close call…

I dive into the stairwell and leg it up to the fourth floor. Hot Frog’s door is ajar and I slide in quietly. He is sitting on his sofa resplendent in all his Gallic glory, deliciously decked out in an open-necked black shirt and gabardine trousers, his hair slicked back but long and curling at the nape.

He pours me my fruit juice and I flop down on the sofa and we chat about the day, then all at once he’s in my face again with his big, wet kiss. Do I dare tell a Frenchman how to perform the most basic sexual act? Needs must.

‘Can I show how I really love to be kissed?’ I breathe seductively, and not waiting for an answer, I close his mouth gently with my thumb and forefinger.

‘Ferme ta bouche…’ I command, ‘…and do exactly as I do.’

THE DAILY MALE - continues...27/01/08

2008-01-27T06:01:00.000-08:00

I stay with Calm Best Friend until the doctor arrives then go down to the village to pick up her meds. I pop into the dining-room at lunchtime to get her some plain boiled rice et voilà! Hot Frog is there as usual. Despite his urgent need for snogging lessons, he still has sexuality oozing out of every pore.

We share a secret smile (I’m going to run out of these if I’m not careful…) and my attraction to him increases. If I could just train him to kiss my way, all holiday fantasies would be fulfilled. When I get dressed for the evening, I don my ‘just-in-case-I-get-lucky’ undies - just in case. Be a shame to waste them, wouldn’t it?

Because I have no problem fancying two men at the same time, CC and I spend the evening continuing our chemical bonding. This man has long-term potential but Hot Frog might have to be climbed because, like Everest, he is there. He is also irresistibly randy eye candy, and MLP, I’m happy to say, has been relegated to the Third Division.

CC and I play footsie under the table over dinner sharing long looks and whispered confidences. He is such a fantastic raconteur, and I am increasingly drawn to him. His humour is addictive and I match him as best I can, hanging on his every word, and trying to make him laugh as much as he makes me. Being slightly pissed on unlimited Mojitos, my tongue is as loose as a chav’s morals, a fact which I shall live to regret.

Just before midnight, CC offers to walk me back to my room again and we end up having a huge snog in the corridor. Now here’s a chap who really knows how to kiss, tenderly, exploringly, yet with an underlying passion that promises great things. And he really turns me on. How cruel and shameless of me to use him as my warm-up man, but he doesn’t know this and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

I pull away before we both become overly engaged, but he begs a few more moments alone with me which I find hard to refuse. I go into his room, mindful of the fact that the midnight text from Hot Frog is due through at any moment. Not having any pockets in my trousers, my mobile is wedged firmly between my breasts...

THE DAILY MALE continues...20/1/08

2008-01-20T02:44:00.000-08:00

Despite my presumption of HotFrog being a galloping Gallic love machine, he has no idea how to kiss. He opens his mouth far too wide for a start, and his lingual swirling is too wet and sloppy, the intended prelude to passion not arousing me one little bit. He’s got me pinned against my seat and I don’t want to start a major struggle, so I go along with it for a while then push him away gently and stand up.

He takes this as an invitation to lunge back in and kisses me again, but still, sensuality is in absentia. Not even close. Definitely no cigar. Apart from the Upmann Gigante growing in his trousers…

I push him away again, shaking my head gently in mock disapproval and he takes the rejection in good heart. Well, he wouldn’t want to jeopardize his career by having a client cry ‘Rape’ now, would he?

‘Can you find your way back?’ he asks.

‘I think so’ I reply. ‘I found my way here, didn’t I?’

He takes hold of me again but I wriggle free and he opens the door to let me out.

‘Come back if you get lost’ he calls after me, and I return to my room feeling somewhat virtuous, a sensation I’m not overly familiar with.

CBF is waiting up and I tell her that despite his stunning good looks, he’s a lousy kisser. We giggle and chat awhile until we fall asleep, but in early hours, the poor girl is propelled out of bed by a violent attack of gastro-enteritis which lasts the rest of the night and into the dawn.

First thing in the morning, I ask Reception to call her a doctor and use it as an excuse to text HotFrog – he needs to know what’s going on in with the hotel guests, doesn’t he?

He texts back that he’s sorry to hear this, to let him know if there’s anything he can do, and not to forget to wash my hands at every opportunity. He tells me he’s in meetings all morning, but would be free to see me again this evening if I’d like…

I think about it for a nanosecond and decide, for the sake of the sisterhood, to take him up on his offer.

THE DAILY MALE continues...15/1/08

2008-01-15T14:44:00.000-08:00

CC and I walk quietly along the corridor hand in hand and he tries to kiss me goodnight outside my room. I coyly avoid this without, I hope, hurting his feelings, thinking that I can’t possibly kiss him now and potentially, despite my best intentions, Monsieur le Grenouille Chaud later on.

I wave CC goodnight as he retires to his room down the hall. I wait until I hear his door close, then hotfoot it back upstairs where the bar is just closing. I secrete myself in a large, leather wing chair to await the midnight hour. (Just to remind you, I am also awaiting the guy I vowed not to touch with a sterilised bargepole which I have somehow failed to acquire and hide about my person.)

At 11.56 p.m. Hot Frog texts to say he’s free if I still want to meet him and if so, where am I? I text him back painstakingly one letter at a time, as I’m too excited to reset my phone to French predictive, and a few moments later, he appears as if by magic at my side. Mercifully, the red satin pantaloons have been exchanged for grey flannel trousers and a black cashmere polo shirt. God, he is gorgeous. All thoughts of MLP, CC, STD and the BBC are instantly forgotten.

‘This isn’t very discreet’ I whisper, conscious of my ‘reputation’ (huh?) and the odd staff member who’s still around.

‘Comm and ‘ave a dreenk in my rrroom’ he suggests disarmingly.

I shake my head slowly and say: ‘I don’t really want to do that…’

He appears not to understand why and I cave immediately. He gives me directions on how to access his roof apartment, slopes off with a satisfied smile on his face, and I follow him up at a discreet distance.

He lives in a studio at the top of the hotel. It looks like a panther’s lair: dark walls, deep pile carpets, soft lighting, leather furniture, TV droning quietly in the corner. I’m pretty sure this place has seen a not inconsiderable amount of sextracurricular activity. Am I about to become another notch on his bedpost or is he on mine?

He pours me a fruit juice (I’ve drunk quite enough for one night) and takes a small bottle of water from the fridge for himself. We sit down on separate sofas and talk. The expected plying of alcohol to weaken me for seduction does not take place. He tells me he never drinks, neither on nor off duty. We discuss the career of a Club Med ‘Chef de Village’ and the rootlessness attached to a life spent six months here and two years there. He says he loves it except when the customers complain, but the only real complaints he gets are from his own countrymen. I didn’t realise the French also hate each other!

I enjoy chatting with him as I hardly ever get a chance to practice my French and he repeatedly compliments me on my linguistic skill. He ain’t seen nothing yet! After a pleasant half an hour or so, I finish my drink and look at my watch. He asks if I’m tired and I say not particularly.

‘Zo why you go?’ he queries and in one move, he’s kneeling before me and his tongue is swirling around in my throat.

I think how recently it was that I was kneeling before MLP mourning his imminent demise and I marvel at the serendipity of life and how quickly a heart can heal. I also fleetingly consider the future possibilities with CC and my cup runneth over…