N-N-N-N-NINETEEN?

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 . . .

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 . . .

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?

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...

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...

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

“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!