"Maturity, experience...that sort of thing" they add lamely,
completely ignoring the fact that maturity and experience count for very
little when it comes to getting laid. Who in all honesty, would rather
trade these for a decent set of pecs and a neat arse? So I let the gym
subscription run for another month and tell everyone: "Of course,
I just do it to keep fit," hoping that cardiac arrest doesn't add
a further dimension to the equation.
No matter how fondly I might imagine that I have defied time, no matter
how vehemently I might protest the unfairness of it all and deny the imminent
arrival of the bus-pass, I see the accusing finger of Baby Jane and feel
at one with Joan Crawford: "But ya are Blanche, ya are!" Different
Blanche, same problem - and avoiding mirrors is no answer.
So, denied the advantage of baroque pecs and the waistline of an 18 year-old,
I could of course fall back on that old standby of anyone who has now
reached an age well beyond discretion: money. Who has never run an eye
over those ads in the press with the tantalising pictures of young men
of all shapes and sizes promising nights of sweaty passion, never more
than a phone call away and wondered what else they have to offer beyond
heroic proportions and the staying power of a VW? But at what cost to
the credit card? And I guess they don't take cheques, do they? So
page 2 of 3
contents
of issue 73/74
back
issues
the
gazette
recipes
small
ads
contacting
us
weblinks
one day perhaps, but not yet.
Reluctantly, I turn instead to the gardening page, as the smug distinction
I
