BIRTHDAY PARTY FOR A TWENTY EIGHT YEAR OLD

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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