STRANGER ON A TRAIN

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

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. . .

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

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...?

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 . . .

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!

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!