Fifty five year old man comes home and eats cheese and almond windmill cookies. Which, when you consider all the options, is the only realistic thing to do. Earlier I had been the somewhat unwilling witness of a twenty eight year old celebrating her coming of age for the seventh time.
I do not like rap music.
No, I did not impose myself on the table of bright young things. Be real. Fifty five year old men, no matter how piratical their beard and moustache, dashing even, are NOT a hot commodity.
And these were bright young things!
Pink and innocent.
I'll accept that many of them, being white and from cotton-wool America, probably have sex-lives that put me to shame. I have no problem with that. There are good things to be said for still being rather un-exposed and inexperienced. At the very least, I can proudly assert that I did not jump at every over-moistened opportunity.
No matter how sleaze-o-riffic.
Thirty years ago things might have been different. They weren't, but the possibility was there.
Three decades ago I might have been more frustrated, but nowadays I am at peace. Fifty five year old men are not a hot commodity. I realize that.
Yes, I know that there are cruise-ships full of seventy plus year old matrons who would creakily jump at my prospect. The poor old dears overlook my essential perversions. I may be in my fifties, but I have the depravity of a twenty year old.
Tonight we celebrated the birthday of someone half my age.
She sang a Doctor Dre rap tune.
And consumed gin.
She was all pink and innocent.
I feel a bit old right now.
And in no way pink.
Or innocent.
Almond windmill cookies, Cheddar cheese, and smear of stoneground mustard. That's impossibly old and depraved.
Yes, I am a fossil.
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