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...
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
Friday, 29 January 2010
...AND THE 'MARE GOES ON...
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.
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.
Friday, 22 January 2010
WENDY'S KITCHEN NIGHTMARES
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.
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.
Friday, 15 January 2010
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 . . .
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 . . .
Sunday, 27 December 2009
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?
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?
Sunday, 13 December 2009
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?
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?
Sunday, 6 December 2009
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. . .
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. . .
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