MATURE MEN SHOULD JUST STOP TALKING

Yesterday, I nearly went and got myself a date…….but whilst from the outside my would be new gentleman friend was quite acceptable, once he started on his epic story, he went on and on, and it quickly became a no likey from me. That’s why mature men should just stop talking.

Stick men showing one of them talking

Mature men should just stop talking

There I was stood on a chilly September morning, flogging my crap again at the local weekly car boot sale when a mature gentleman kindly pointed out to me that one of my items was displayed the wrong way round.

He seemed a nice genuine man, silver hair, with an impressive logo on his body warmer, and if I’m not mistaken a splash of Dior Eau de Savage wafted my way. We chatted about the pro’s and con’s of bifocal’s, and how popular Onyx had been in the 70’s. Not exactly mind blowing conversation, but don’t say I didn’t try.

I’m quite a regular there as I’m trying my best to declutter my life because as lifestyle ‘gurus’ say,  minimalistic is the new way to be cosy and less stressed.  I’m not convinced.  (more…)

LOSING YOUR LIBIDO

 

Apparently, after much money has been wasted on trials and studies on libido, the conclusion has been reached, the verdict delivered. Viagra does not work for women.  You don’t say! 

What a pity the same scientists hadn’t just asked women, they could have reached the same conclusion, for half the cost in half the time. Yes, we are told Viagra will make no difference to our sex drive and of course, it’s true; we’ve known it all along.

Unlike men, a little blue pill will not make us be magically up for it. It won’t put our sex drive into forward gear, relight our fire, or float our boat.

We know that the desire for sex starts in a women’s brain and works its magic downwards, whilst rumour has it that in men it starts downwards and pretty much stays there.

Luckily for those men whose equipment no longer rises to the occasion, purchase of a quick ‘kick start’ is easy via the Internet, without leaving the comfort of their own home.   Viagra pic H60

For a more personal approach, a visit to a sympathetic male doctor will have the desired effect and before you can say ‘make mine a stiff one’ they’ll soon sidle out of the pharmacy with a cure, boxed and wrapped in a plain paper bag.

Does this mean there is no quick fix solution for the ladies? What really is the truth about women’s loss of libido? How odd that it seems to just disappear. (more…)

MATURE MEN ARE SO BORING!

I wish I could keep my mouth shut. I really do. Not only that, I wish I could NOT write the things that I do.  But it’s impossible, and the fact, that in my opinion, mature men are so boring, is one more example of things that I wish I could NOT write.

One of my last missives was concerning a gentleman friend, who’d committed several crimes against brushes, and generally pissed me off, though not to the point where I’d banished him to the ‘ex’ friends heap as he continues to give me plenty of ‘content’ with which to create witty and amusing missives for your (possible) entertainment.

Don’t get me wrong.  He’s a nice man, a very very nice man. But bloody hell, why are mature men so boring. He’s turned 65, and though I will never meet her, as she’s currently propping up a very new and shiny headstone in Highgate Cemetery, I think he’s turning into his Mother, which brings me nicely to the reason for my story. 

(more…)

ONE MAN, TWO BRUSHES AND A BONE CHINA CUP

I cannot believe how, or why it has taken me so long to add something vaguely witty or wise to my little Hello Sixty blog. This is the story of one man and two brushes and includes a bone china cup.  All will become clear, so stick with it.

BRUSH NUMBER ONE FOR ONE MAN TWO BRUSHES and a bone china cup 

I’m really fussy about tea.  I like to make my own tea, and wherever possible it has to be Yorkshire Tea.

I don’t mind it being made in a mug during the day and evening, BUT my first cup of tea of the day just has to be made in a white bone china cup. Don’t ask me why it just does.

As lots of you will know, I’ve recently returned from a trip to Spain, and after selling all my worldly goods to go in the first place, now I need to restock my new abode with virtually everything from knives and forks and pots and pans, right up to beds, sofa’s and beyond.

One of my gentleman callers who starts virtually every sentence with ‘I’m not tight but….’ gets very turned on by a trip to Poundland and he treated me to 6 new mugs. They cost exactly a £1.00 each.

They were perfectly acceptable, but favorite was still my pure white, bone china breakfast teacup, which I bought myself, and cost £4.99 in Sainsbury’s.

And yes you can Taste the Difference.

Fast forward.  I’ve gone mad painting shelves and upcycling some shabby shite which I’ve paid next to nothing for at car boot sales, and I’m very fond of wrapping my brushes in cling film and leaving them laying around the kitchen until the next project.

Imagine if you will then how utterly grateful I was to Mr. ‘I’m not tight but…’ when I found that out of all the mugs in my kitchen, he’d ‘helpfully’ rounded up my paint brushes and left them to soak in……..my beautiful pure white bone china breakfast teacup.

It’s relevant to say here that Mr ‘I’m not tight but….’ is a nice chap, very helpful, and a top bloke for putting up shelves and curtain poles. But he’s SO careful with his money, and likes to hold onto it for as long as humanly possible

Oh, and did I mention he’s won the lottery not once, but twice!  Not life changing amounts, but more than enough to make a big difference, and just last week won yet another £150 on a scratch card.  Talk about money going to money

BRUSH NUMBER TWO FOR ONE MAN TWO BRUSHES and a dustpan and brush.   

One man, two brushes

One man, two brushes

Things disappear don’t they, usually, it’s just socks and things. But recently so did my dustpan and brush. I have no idea where it went, I think I must have just left it in a bin bag and chucked it out with the rubbish.

Mr ‘I’m not tight but…’ found this completely mystifying and mulled over its disappearance for an unhealthily long time.

The lost dustpan and brush was actually white, but he mourned the loss so much he began to even debate the colour, saying that he was sure it was maroon.

He’d been putting up some shelves, and there’s always that bit of dust that gets trapped on the skirting board, and of course, you don’t realise how handy a dustpan and brush can be until you’ve chucked them away!

But on about the 5th time of him trying to start a conversation about the ffffflippin dustpan and brush, unsurprisingly I flipped and suggested that if I had one handy, I’d shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.

Some days later, he left a voicemail on my phone that went something like this.

‘You are going to laugh at this’…….( I doubted it )……I’m in a shop, standing in front of loads of dustpan and brushes all in different colours, and I don’t know if I should get you one or not, and what colour you would like. You are not answering your phone and I really don’t know what to do’.

And then he hung up. Apparently at the time of the call he was standing in Poundland, where the dustpan and brush was ONE pound.  He didn’t get me one. It was £1.00. ONE Pound.

If you, on the other hand really don’t get ME, refer back to the paragraph in italics above.

In the end, I bought my own dustpan and brush, and it too cost a £1.00 from a boot sale, after a few outings, the handle broke.

Now if only someone had bought me a spare one………MEN!

Read more about Mr. I’m not tight but…….http://www.hellosixty.com/mature-men-are-so-boring/

 

HONESTLY WE ARE JUST GOOD FRIENDS!

Fancy some Fish and Chips on Friday?  he typed.   That would be lovely, I typed back.

We don’t actually talk very often, but we type a lot to each other.  Sometimes we watch whole programmes on the telly together too, whilst sitting miles apart. Yes I know, we should get out more but honestly, we are just good friends.

The exchanges are fairly succinct.  Celebrity MasterChef, for example, is accompanied by  ‘that looks like shite,  or ’not enough jus with the lamb’  and ‘shovel it in Greg’………..highbrow stuff.

Then, in the middle of our ‘conversation,’ we both nod off on our respective sofa’s, about 20 miles apart until the next time.  (more…)

MIND THE ‘AGE’ GAP!

H60. Older man younger womanBack in the day, when those of us who were a ‘child of the 60’s, were fluttering our Mary Quant eyelashes, and dancing round our handbags to Tamla Motown tunes, it seemed so damn cool for us to be seen out with an attractive, older, more worldly wise man.

Somehow, when you were 18 and freezing your tits off on the back of a Vespa, and some charmer nearly twice your age, came along swanking it big time, offering you a lift home in his Ford Cortina, you pretty soon started riding pillion in a frankly more pleasurable way.

And yes, ‘back in the day’, I too enjoyed liaisons with men considerably older than me, and far from feeling used and abused, (as apparently so many women 40 odd years later, now conveniently feel), I had a great time.

I went to places other girls my age only read about in magazines, I ate in good restaurants, and shopped in the West End while my mates were shopping in the market. (more…)

WE NEED TO TALK!

I don’t remember where I was when texting arrived. It crept up on me from behind, and not in a good way.

All of a sudden EVERYONE was at it.  Yes OK, it may be ‘progress’ but really, I think it’s a backward step.

Why is it more normal to text, than to actually SPEAK to the person you want to communicate with.

Am I’m a textaphobe?  Oh no I’m up to speed me!  Yes my fingers can talk the talk as well as anyone else.

But way back in the day, that clever chap Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone, so we could speak to another person, immediately, without waiting for a letter or a telegram, bearing good, or bad news. EUREKA!  Because of him, we just picked up the phone and TALKED.

But all good things come to an end and we now have the cutting edge of text messaging at our  fingertips. Previously, you might have enjoyed a verbal invitation for a hot date and had the pleasure of hearing the sexy voice of your one and only. Now, you get a piercing text alert, only to read ‘ wud b g8 2 c u 2nite, spk 2 u l8ter’.

Well that’s not going to ‘send’ you all giddy is it!H60 new message received.

I think women, especially, get a very raw deal in the texting department.  When sending a text to their ‘man of the moment’ they usually use up all of their allotted digits.  Men, on the other hand, usually use the least digits possible to get their message across.

Imagine the morning after the passionate night before. Women are prone to reliving it all, and may wonder if ‘he’ is still basking in the same afterglow as she is. (Unlikely)

So she sends a 160 digit loving missive about how great it had all been. If she’s lucky enough to get any response at all, ‘yeah woz gud’ could just tip her over the edge of texting reason.

Mobile phones seem to have become the adult version of a security blanket. They have to be within touching distance or the owner feels a bit scared.  Scared of missing something that is.

No matter where you look these days, there will be someone clutching their phone, texting madly. Huddled in doorways’ the smokers have now been joined by a new band of brothers all firing up their small and slinky weapons of mass communication.

Of course one thing a phone call and text message do have in common is that sometimes both of them are a long time coming so to speak.

You know how it is, you are all loved up, waiting for a missive from the object of your desire, but you have to keep your phone on silent. Perhaps you are at work, or worse still, a funeral.

So you tuck your mobile snugly in your bra or knickers.  After all if there are any vibrations heading your way, especially in your lady bits, you sure as hell don’t want to miss them.

Then, if he’s in ‘chatty’ mode you have to plead early onset incontinence and visit the loo several times so you can reply in secret.

Gone are the days when numerous trips to the ladies could indicate doing constructive things with white powder and a credit card. The fashionable addiction now is TEXTING.

Even the Priory Clinic are running therapy sessions, I kid you not.

But even if it is quick, and convenient, texting is still fraught with issues for lots of people.

We’ve all got a relative or friend who takes FOREVER to reply to the simplest of texts, or who just ignores them altogether.

Isn’t it so annoying, when you need a quick response to something, as in, right NOW, and you know damn well the other person is definitely not handcuffed to a chair in a darkened room rocking some earplugs.  Yes, they can see, and hear that they have received a text from you, but it’s totally out of your hands, when, or if they will answer.

Then to add insult to injury, eventually you may get a response which begins ‘soz woz busy b4….

Busy BUSY?  What on earth were you so busy doing that it took you THIS long to bloody well answer. Honestly, I’ve seen my nearest and dearest respond to a text almost before they’ve received it, yet sometimes I wait DAYS for a reply if I get one at all!  Collection of acronyms and abbreviations colorful speech bubbles

I’m ancient enough to remember the smelly phone box at the bottom of my road, where I used to go every Sunday evening with my Mum so we could make our weekly phone call to my Gran.  The A and B button, the frantic ‘Goodbyes’ trying to beat the pips.

Somehow, no matter how many kisses it has at the end, a text from MY Grandchildren, just isn’t the same as hearing their voices.

KWIM!?

MY THRESHOLDS ARE LOW!

Mature Gentleman, look away now.     H60 low boredom threshold

I know I have a low boredom threshold, and my attention wanders pretty damn quick if I’m not fully engaged with either a person, film, or even a book.

But when it comes to a mature man trying to entertain me with what he thinks is an interesting tale, sometimes I struggle to disguise my FFS shut up face.

Some people would have us believe that this, low boredom threshold thing, is the sign of an intelligent mind, but in my case, I can assure you it’s just a sign that someone is taking far too long to tell me a story!

Yep, I’m just plain bloody bored.

I honestly do try, but today was a prime example of something that happens to me quite regularly.  Is it them, or is it me I ask myself.  But I’ve a better idea.  You decide!

I’ve been away for a week to Spain, on my holibobs. I’ve eaten some nice food, seen some nice places, and met some nice people.

In fact it’s all be SO ‘nice’ that I have a story or two of my own to impart to anyone who is willing to listen.

But today was clearly not my turn for storytelling.

One of my very mature ‘gentlemen friends’ called in to collect some duty free cigarettes I’d got for him. And when I say ‘friend’ he is just that.

A lovely, very rotund chap, who is outrageously rude and opinionated, but hilariously funny at the same time.  He’s usually great company.

But today, the boring bug had bitten him good and proper.

He bustled in with a big bear hug and peck on the cheek for me, plonked himself down rather heavily in a chair not made for girth.

Being polite, I got in first, and asked him how he was, and what he’d been up to.   BIG mistake!

Now I can tell you what he’d been up to in these few words.

His friend, a farmer, got a puncture on his truck but he had no spare tyre, so he was going off to get it repaired for him. Some modern vehicles don’t come with a spare these days, just a repair kit, which isn’t much good if it’s a 4×4 and you regularly drive over fields and ditches like he does.  What a daft idea these repair kits are for commercial vehicles, surely they should come with a spare tyre.  END OF.

Only his version went on, and on and on.  He told me about the inner workings of an inner tube, the size of the wheel, the make of the vehicle, and went into great detail about a series of letters he had previously exchanged with the MD of the car manufacturer, regarding the aforementioned omission of a spare tyre.    H60 Tyre repair kit.

He quoted parts of each letter, quoted part of the current licencing law for commercial vehicles and didn’t even stop when I began to pick my nails and do that thing we ladies do when we are not in the least bit interested, and start saying, ‘yeah’ in a….’ hurry up and shut up’ kind of way.

For Fuck Sake……….seriously, why do men do this.  Take FOREVER to tell a story which holds NO interest whatsoever for a female listener.

Don’t they realise, it’s so damn boring and eventually we just zone out.  They are so busy droning on and on, they can’t even pick up the signals that it’s time to shut up.

And not to mention their ability to hark back to something that happened 4 decades ago, making it sound like it happened last week.

What is that all about.  Talk about living in the past.

Women are good at just getting the pertinent facts of a story across aren’t they.  We can tell it exactly how it is in a few sentences, and move on swiftly to the next bit of juicy gossip.

We live in the moment; we are best at banter and bare facts.   H60 AND

WE DON’T CARE if whatever, happened on a Monday at 7, or Thursday at 10.  We just want to know WHAT happened!

BUT ‘mature’ men seem to have to be SO precise about the facts of any incident.  As if a minor wrong detail will affect the bloody outcome of the story.

Chaps, do us women a favour,  just cut to the chase, the quicker the better.

Eventually this morning, I had no alternative, but to stand up, look at the clock and squeeze in ‘it’s been lovely to see you’ (now bugger off), before he told me the colour of the vehicle and what size underpants the owner wore.

Thankfully, getting the hint, he heaved himself out of the chair, picked up his Silk Cut Purple and went happily, if obliviously on his way.

My ‘gentleman friend’ is intelligent, well versed, bright and amusing in general conversation, but OMG, get him onto telling a story, and you end up hearing the ins and outs of a magpies arse………

Did he ask anything about my holiday. NO.

Did I get the chance to tell him anything about my holiday. NO.

Does the same thing happen to you?   Tell me………..

Otherwise I shall think I’m just a really rubbish ‘lady friend’ who is only interested in the sound of her own voice!

 

 

LOVELY TO MEET YOU – NOT

Is it me, I ask myself a hundred times a day, but on this conundrum, I’ll let you, dear reader, decide.

So off I go on a ‘date’ with the new man. I haven’t said much about the new man, as I have no idea if he is going to be the new man for much longer. To be honest the signs are not that good, and there have been a few glitches already in this fledgling relationship, more of that another day. But for now….

Last night we went out for a pub meal with 3 other couples, who already know him, but have never met me before.  I obviously have no idea what to expect, but I’m dressed in black leggings, black tunic dress, cowboy type boots and leather jacket.  My hair looks reasonably bobbed and I’ve gone for the smokey eyes and red lippy look.

To be fair, it’s pretty much my normal, every – day look, I’ve neither dressed up, or down.

So I rock up in the car park, the man is there, and we go into the pub together.

One couple have already arrived, and so meet and greet the man warmly, and he introduces me, they say ‘Hello, nice to meet you’ and, so do I.  It is indeed all very ‘nice’.

By the time we’ve been to the bar and got our first drink, the other couples have arrived so now there is a greeting fest going on, and everyone is very pleased to meet everyone else.

It’s still all very ‘nice’.

I get seated between the new man, and another lady, we are all around the same age, but I feel from the get go that they really won’t ‘get’ me.

And I’m right.

Food choices are made, orders taken, and so everyone is now free to chat uninterrupted. So they do, but not to me!

Now I don’t know about you, but I’ll talk to anyone, I’ll ask questions, and engage with people in a supermarket queue, a lift, on the train, absolutely anywhere and I’m happy to respond to any questions that may, in turn, be thrown my way.   Except last night, they weren’t throwing any

Despite my frequent attempts to engage, the established group of ladies clearly preferred to talk amongst themselves, which I thought was incredibly rude.

At one point, I did manage to comment how gay weddings were usually the most stylish, but you’d have thought I’d told them I’d got a bad attack of head lice.

Mouths curled up at the edges and there was a discernable shaking of heads.

I won’t lie, they did talk to the group generally, but nobody included me in their conversations, or asked me anything about myself, you know those obvious questions like, where are you from, where do you work, how did you two meet, and things I’d sure as heck ask if a newly available man rocked up with someone like me!

I mean, if they HAD eventually asked me what I did, I was intending to use my shock tactic and say I was a writer of erotica, and, if they HAD eventually asked me if I’d done anything nice last week, I was going to truthfully tell them that I’d had some fantastic conversations with some  of my own feisty, fab friends, including one who was telling me about a sexy tryst she’d had with a complete stranger, one who was planning a sexy tryst with a sexy Frenchman, and one who was amusing me with details of how one of her mates had enjoyed an unexpected, but perfectly friendly gang bang in a former life.

You won’t be surprised to read that I found all that far more interesting than  ‘are we having a starter or a pudding’ which was about as much as the incredibly dull damsels in the pub could amuse me with.

So, what did I do?

Well, after arriving at the allotted hour of 7.30, and after feeling like Polly no Pals for far longer than I deserved, I shovelled my dinner down, and at 10.15 as soon as the last spoonful of meringue left my mouth, I picked up my bag, smiled ever so sweetly, and said as insincerely as I possibly could,  ‘it was lovely meeting you’, and with 7 pairs of eyes following me, I flounced out the door, and buggered off home for a nice cup of tea and a cuddle with the dog.

So really, is it me?    Not nice to meet you

Do you think I was right to be a tad pissed off at their rudeness?

 

TO SIR WITH LOVE

I was more than pleased to see Rachel Johnson’s sensible comment in the Mail On Sunday regarding the 44 year old man who was allowed to walk free from court last week even though it was proven, that he did indeed have sexual contact with, a then, 16 year old girl, whilst ‘in a position of trust as one of her teachers’.

Despite the outcry from many organisations ranging from the NSPCC, Barnardo’s, The National Association for People Abused in Childhood, and the End Violence Against Women campaigners to name but a few, I think the leniency shown to the teacher was justified.

Honestly, talk about over reaction. This was consexual sex.  Yes it was ill judged, and foolish, but it was still consensual. The pupil was not raped, or co-erced and as such in my view, this means that the teacher should NOT be labelled as any sort of paedophile, as he is not.

This pupil wanted him, she made sure she got him. Girls of 16 can be incredibly manipulative. It is not always the man.

The teacher is guilty of being weak, having a dreadful lack of judgement, and on a far grander scale, showing total disrespect to both his long suffering wife, and in the bigger picture his employers.

As a Mother and Grandmother, I honestly wonder if some of these protesters are living in a box somewhere and do not actually get out there and see, and experience REAL life, REAL situations that they are supposed to be aware of.

Don’t they realise just how a weak willed teacher ‘might’ have his head turned by a strong willed, streetwise, pretty fabulous looking girl who is 15 going on 25 and is actually still in year 11.

Sophie 1

Here is a young friend of mine and in this picture she is 15.  She is a gorgeous, bright, funny, strong minded, girl, who thankfully instead of making eyes at a male teacher, is more likely to kick him in the nuts, and tell him to ‘do one’ if he dared to even dream about invading her personal space.

She has a fantastic family around her, and is confident enough NOT to seek the attentions of an unsuitable man.

BUT, what if she was needy and attention seeking, with looks like this, if SHE turned on her charms, and decided she was going to ‘have’ SIR, she could.

No matter how many ‘agencies’ bang on about child protection, it’s not always the child that needs it, as Rachel Johnson says, the laws are there to protect the teacher as much as the pupil, and what a good job it is.

Look at another one of my friends. She is 15.  Again from a very close knit family, she’s confident, strikingly attractive, intelligent, popular, and streetwise.  Already an aspiring model, she’s clever, and cool enough to simply give ‘SIR’ the most withering of looks and tell him to get lost if he thought he was in with a chance.   Eloise Perry.

But what if she was needy, and attention seeking, with looks like this if SHE turned on her charms, and decided she was going to ‘have’ SIR, she could.

Way back in the late 60’s, when school youth clubs were popular, and before the formation of many of these child protection agencies, I also nearly ‘had’ SIR.

He wasn’t actually my teacher, but he ran a youth club that I used to go to at a different school, and I was out to get him.

Now, some 47 years later, I recall he was dark, swarthy looking, he smoked roll ups and had lovely hooded eyes.  He was an absolute stalwart of the local community, involved in sport, music, and many other school related activities, but was still something of a rebel.

At the time, he was 40 years old.  I was 15 years old, small, blonde and used to getting my own way, this poor bloke had no chance.  He had absolutely no ill intent towards me. He was kind, looked out for me, and never acted inappropriately towards me in any way whatsoever, until I almost forced him to!

Luckily for him, we were interrupted and the moment was gone, but I know without a doubt that given five more minutes, it would have been an entirely different story I’d be telling you, I don’t think I’d have allowed him to refuse!

But then, as now, IF rumours had started, police and my parents would have been involved and he probably would have lost his job, and lost his good name, and it truly would all have been my fault, not his.

These days, boys and girls are sexting, texting and talking about sex before they’ve even left junior school.  A high percentage of them know exactly what’s what in the sexual timetable of life.

Boys can be just as manipulative as girls, and if ‘Miss’ happens to be fit and flirty, then she too will be shown no mercy by the one who wants to be her favourite and have a fumble in the form room.

But if things did go too far and the boy cried wolf, then you can be sure it would be all the fault of ‘Miss’ in her moment of madness.

What do you think about the story in the newspapers?  Do you know anyone who actually had a fling with their teacher, maybe you had more than just a crush on yours?