Apparently, after much money has been wasted on trials and studies, 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 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…)


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.

Anyone would think I’d been frantically busy, or had fallen in love and was beyond distracted.  But I have no excuse.

I’m sure all of you have picked up one of those ancient magazines you find in the dentist, and suddenly found something amusing in it, so let’s just go with ‘better later than never’ and crack on.

This is the story of one man, and two brushes. All will become clear, so stick with it.

Brush Number One.

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 favourite was still my pure white, bone china breakfast tea cup, 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 tea cup.

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 and is more than reluctant to spend it.

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.   

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 these things are, until you’ve chucked them away!

But on about the 5th time of 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 don’t shine.

Some days later, he left a message 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.

He was standing in Poundland.  The dustpan and brush was ONE pound.  He didn’t get me one.

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!



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.

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, until the next time.

I first knew Dicky in the mid 80’s when he was my window cleaner.  He was a handsome bugger, and he came with his own set of ladders. He could charm the birds off the trees and into his bed.

He was and still is, a cheeky chap, and although he will deny it, he had the pleasure of many a young lady, back in the day. But I wasn’t one of them.

Damn it.       DICKY DOWNES

Whilst we’ve always kept in touch, to be fair, we don’t actually see each other very often. I think it’s been oh at least twice this year, and possible twice last year.

But strangely enough, we are still quite close. I’d trust this man with my life, he is a very special bloke.

Over the last 30 odd years, we’ve flirted with the idea of becoming a bit more of an item. We’ve pipe dreamed about going here and there, doing this and that, and sometimes even the other.

But it’s never happened and never will.  Our moment has passed, and we both know it.

Nope we are just good friends, always have been, always will be.  However, it is quite surreal that by the power of Facebook, a simple selfie, and a fairly innocent throwaway line resulted in us becoming engaged by proxy, accompanied by many MANY messages of congratulations, wishes of happiness and that old chestnut, ‘Shall I buy a new hat’.     champagne

In fact, it got so out of control, that my ‘just good friend’ had to issue a statement of denial!

Honestly, if we’d been on Twitter, we’d have been trending.

It went something like this.

We took a nice leisurely drive to West Mersea. It wasn’t our first destination of choice, but it being a nice sunny Friday evening, the world and his wife decided to cause a bit of a kerfuffle on the A12, and so, as older people do, we decided to play it safe and take the back roads to a more familiar Essex backwater.

We talked our way onto a reserved table, promising not to be long, and did indeed have two very large portions of Skate and Chips, washed down with a bottle of pretty decent Merlot.

At the agreed hour, we adjourned to a bench outside, overlooking the water and it was there that the confusion selfie was snapped.

It was as they say, all over in a flash, and fed onto Facebook in seconds with the cryptic tag line of

30 years later………we didn’t want to rush things.

Then, my companion put his phone away, we finished our bottle of wine, and had a little stroll round, watched a few boats bobbing about and some seagulls swimming, and then went home for a nice cup of tea. We know how to live.

Yes, by 10.30, we were both yawning, the excitement had all been too much. Bed, and a good book was calling us.  That’ll be separate beds, and separate books.  Just to be clear.

However, while we were taking the scenic route back home, our picture had gone a tad ‘viral’ amongst the man Dicky’s Facebook friends.

And so by Saturday morning, 229 people had kindly liked our picture, and there were 80 congratulatory messages from people possibly all hoping for an invite to a wedding that wasn’t going to take place.

It was quite cheering to know that so many people approved of our unreal relationship, even Dicky’s son succinctly wrote that I was ‘fit’.

Thank you to my nearly stepson. Nice one.


However, much as we hated to disappoint everyone, not to mention dismissing the possibility of many gorgeous gifts, (and maybe even shedloads of money), it would have been rude and unkind to have misled all those potential wedding guests any longer, and so apologies for confusion were hastily added to the hundreds of comments and we became quietly un-betrothed.

Sadly, in 30 years of friendship that was the first picture, of Dicky and I  ‘togevver’, I’m guessing it will probably be the last!

Still it was nice while it lasted!


H60. Older man younger woman Back 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.

But whilst I eventually married a man my own age, girls who took the plunge and got hitched to ‘the much older man’, often come to regret it now they are in their early sixties, and living with men in their very late seventies and beyond.

We know that men age more quickly than women both in their hearts and in their heads, but in later life, when you are stuck in a marriage with a man who acts more like your Grandad, you do mind, and it does matter.

Most of us ladies who are only just saying ‘Hello Sixty’ with our bodies, are still saying ‘Hello Thirty’ in our heads.

Yes OK, physically our bunions are killing us, and we’ve got those annoying black things ‘floating on’ in our circa 1950’s eyes, but mentally, we are still feeling sexy, sociable, fit and flirty.

But that handsome devil who schmoozed his young bird’s knickers off all those years ago, and eventually put a ring on the Third Finger Left hand, isn’t bearing up quite so well. Now, there is a gaping chasm of years, which grows wider by the day.

Yes we are up for anything. We are getting into book clubs big time, and look forward to spending 10 minutes talking about the book, and 2 hours talking about sex, mainly fuelled by Prosecco.

Meanwhile the old man is at home enjoying quality time in his shed, thinking about a different kind of grinding on his home made lathe, with a bottle of Old Bob. Yes, he’s living his dream.

She see’s  a party as a time for dancing, he see’s  a party as much too noisy, and spends half the night sitting outside nursing a pint. Just as the night warms up, he demands to go home, while she isn’t feeling the Cinderella vibe. Her dancing shoes are just warming up.

Miss Sixty see’s a lively restaurant as full of atmosphere, it’s a time for chatting over good food, whilst the octogenarian husband complains that he can’t hear a thing above the ‘racket’, and grumbles that people should be eating and not making so much noise!

But it doesn’t end there. The man who is now approaching his 80th year, can’t comprehend why his still sprightly wife in her 60’s doesn’t think, and feel the same as he does, and the repercussions it has on their marriage and home life can be devastating.

A man born in the 1940’s will undeniably still be ‘old school’ in 2015, more set in his ways, and less able to accept that times have changed, and his wife has changed too.

With more and more ‘silver surfers’ on the internet, social media is there for the taking.  Mrs Sizzling at Sixty now has her eyes wide open to sites that sell sex toys, and forums that mention the fuck word without a five minute warning.

If his erectile should be dysfunctioning, then at the click of a button she can secretly swap her man for a different man for a night of pleasure, with no penalty to pay.

(Himself will still think that Tupperware parties are alive and kicking in Kettering, he’ll be none the wiser)

The next day, because she’s got pretty sharp at that writing lark, she can share her ‘adventure’ on her blog, as Mr Complacent has no idea how to turn a computer on, he still prefers good old fashioned pen and paper.

Instead of her longed for retirement adventures, disappointment and resentment sets in. They retire to their own separate corners, him to the garden to talk to his plants, she to her computer where she will talk to her Facebook friends.

The once charming man older man, has morphed into a grumpy much older man. Because he can feel her slipping away, the once endearing trait of taking care of her, takes on a more sinister air, and becomes more like control.

‘Have a good time, and I’ll pick you up at 11.00 and drive you home’ becomes ‘where are you going, how long will you be’?

‘You look so sexy in that dress’ changes too, ‘that dress is far too short for you at your age’.

For women, today’s sixty is yesterday’s 40, and no matter how much the younger wife loved her older husband when they first tied the knot, he is the one who becomes needy, while she becomes more confident.

Yes, just when the older husband needs his younger wife most, he makes her want him less.

Who is the worldly wise one now? While he’s living in the past, she’s still planning her future, maybe this time with a much YOUNGER man.

Do you know anyone who sometimes struggles with the differences an ‘older husband/younger wife’ relationship brings in those retirement years?


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?



You have to be a bit careful when you start this blogging lark.

Before you know it, you’ve signed up for this, that, and the other course, or challenge, and put yourself under pressure to fulfil whatever commitment you have made to this, that or the other course or challenge.

As indeed I do. As indeed I have.

Usually I start off fairly positively, fate lends a helping hand, and life leaves me alone for a few days, and my fingers crack on.

So between my tippy tappy Gellish nails, and with my motivated head on, for the first week or so, I can usually throw something into the mix.

But then it all goes tits up, life wants me to come out and play again, and I end up having an epic fail by week three.

Which is exactly what happened with my latest little blogging adventure.

Yes, during week ONE, I got my head down, and typed my fingers to the bone. Week TWO, well that was fairly acceptable too, but oh my days, week THREE has been right balls up, and week FOUR is looking decidedly dodgy too.

So let’s roll out the excuses, ranging from fairly feeble, to fuck it I’m a failure.

OK, so I have to put proper food in the dog’s bowl, and crumbs on my table, so occasionally have to go and do my ‘proper job’ and earn some pennies, and that takes care of Monday, Friday, and lots of Saturday but hey, there are 4 more perfectly good days in the week to sit in my woman cave and dream up some amusing snippets.

Except last week.

Last week was my birthday week, and in all my 62 years I don’t think I’ve ever been as popular.  On Tuesday there came girlfriends, tulips, chocs and Prosecco, Wednesday brought bestest male buddy with bottles of red, Thursday more girlfriends, cake and coffee, Friday evening, more food and Spritzers and so it went on.

Yes, blogging fell by the wayside, while I wallowed in birthday good wishes.

So there’s the first round of my excellently extenuating excuses.

But really, I mean REALLY?  Of course I should have, COULD have done so much better.  I mean, how long does it take to just write something, anything?

Especially when the blogging mantra really is ‘good is good enough’.

But now here’s the main reason for my lack of focus, there’s a new man on the horizon, and as any woman of a certain age will tell you, that can only mean one thing.

I’m more than a little distracted not to mention panic stricken, but more about that later!


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?


Well you lot can laugh all you like, but if you are anything like me, you can
often judge your relationship status by size of your knickers.

If you are in the throes of a brand new sizzling relationship, then you are probably at, or in, as it were, the matching skimpies stage.

If quickies are jumping out at you from all corners of your new romantic  life, then getting ‘caught short’ so to speak, in a pair of belly warmers doesn’t bear thinking about.

You are on high alert,  appropriately underdressed, and ready for action at all times.

You’ll have stocked up on, lacy knickers, French knickers, and silky knickers. Cotton gussets no longer feature on your underwear horizon.  Saggy knickers are consigned to the bin, or if you are of a, make do and mend disposition,  rehomed in a bucket under the sink and renamed ‘Duster’.

You must be incredibly old if you feel it is acceptable to use a pair of old drawers as a duster,  unless of course you are over 85.  What’s more, if  someone has put some happy back into your lady bits in the autumn of your life,  then I’d say, fuck dusting your chandeliers,….. swing from them instead.     Ladies knickers


Then time moves on doesn’t it. Not only do you move into a comfort zone with your new beau, you move into a comfy knickers zone too.  Gradually, there becomes two parts to your undies drawer.

Every day pants, on the left, lace edged, a cheeky bow here and there, comfortable, yet still with a nod to the inner sexy you, but your special occasion, sexy thongs and strings are tucked away on the right, waiting for that waft of ‘come hither’ aftershave, that means, ……..well, you know what it means.

But how long I wonder before you are regularly browsing the ‘high leg, cotton gusset, full pant’ section again, instead of rocking an uncomfortable world wide wedgie!

Yes, I know we’ve all still got our holiday mini’s, and ‘hold your muffin top in’ maxi’s,  but go on, admit it ladies, sometimes you just can’t beat your favourite pair of BIG PANTS!

Knickers Bridget



Last Chance Saloon!


It’s the last chance saloon!

It is funny isn’t it, how ‘some’ mature men, behave like stupid teenagers when it comes to women, and often not in a good, or gentlemanly way.

Take my acquaintance Philip for example, and yes, that is his real name.

I’ve known Phil for a goood few years. We once flirted with the idea of becoming a bit of an item, but for one reason and another I decided I’d rather stay in the friendship zone. Friends.

Our non relationship, had been more than tested many moons ago, as while I was working for him for a few weeks,  he was unable to accept that he wasn’t ever going to see me in my undies, so he took a sulk, and actually fired me from my job!

But after we’d retired to our separate corners for a year or so, we kissed and made up, and even though we’ve both moved around a lot over the years, we’ve always kept in touch and I’d given our friendship one more chance.

Fast forward to this year, when we’ve met up a few more times for a drink and a chat, exchanged a few texts and phone calls, and I’d say our friendship had grown a bit

Still no clothes have been removed in the conducting of this friendship, but we have genuinely had some good laughs along the way.

Now Philip has other lady ‘friends’ which I know exist, but he never mentions them. Preferring me to believe that he’s free and single, even if he is not young.

He’s a smart, good looking man, and  there’s no doubt that he is attractive for his age. He’s funny, and entertaining and probably a good catch for someone who is not me.

But Philip forgets that by the wonders of social media, I can see pictures of a mature blonde female, draped round his neck at a New Years Eve celebration, and on this particular occasion, the camera certainly didn’t lie!

I can also almost see her knickers as she is pictured rather unwisely ‘dancing’ on the floor with her legs apart.   It’s not a good look.

cruise shipAt the beginning of June andpreceding my recent holiday, Philip upped his game slightly and the phone calls were coming in on a daily basis. There was talk of me accompanying him on a cruise later this year. Separate cabins all the way

Philip likes cruises, a lot, but he usually goes alone.  Honestly, he told me. So it must be true.

Yes, just lately there had been a nice friendly feel to our nice friendly relationship.   But then what do you know, during a  last minute visit to him, the day before my holiday, Philip lost a really good friend, and so I guess he’ll carry on cruising, ‘alone’.

I wanted to return a small camera, and so one early evening, unannounced, I pulled into the pub car park where I knew I would find him.

Unbeknown to Phil in the garden of the pub, being all clued up,  I spotted his neck draping, knicker lady, chatting to some customers, but I wasn’t wanting to speak to her, so I just wandered into the pub, all smiles and called out a happy Hello!

Beer gardenThe look on his face was just priceless.  A mixture of horrified, terrified surprise!  He jumped up out of his leather look Chesterfield, grabbed my arm, quicker than quick, and marched me back towards the door muttering frantically,

‘Thanks for popping in, have a lovely holiday’ BYE !

Wine glassesHe couldn’t get me out of the door quick enough.   Whereas previously, he’d offer a glass of wine, maybe some nibbles, and be happy to chat for hours, this time, my feet almost didn’t touch the ground. I was in, and out in less than a minute.

I got back in the car and just shook my head in disbelief that ‘a friend’ could treat his friend, so badly.

The ironic part of all this, for me anyway, was, that he was blissfully unaware of the fact that I knew the reason for his disgracefully rude behaviour.

What the heck did he think I was going to do?  If his ‘lady friend’ should, by chance, have walked back into the pub, I would have read the signs, made polite excuses and left.   I’m still not sure what he was most scared of, me seeing her, or her seeing me!

It made not a scrap of difference to me. I am of the opinion that if you don’t want to have a relationship with a friend, who is a man, then you have to embrace and accept his choice of female companions


We WERE only friends after all.  Not anymore!   Bye Bye image.  image buddy


My first trip to the pictures with my Mum!

My first trip to the pictures with my Mum!


I was unlucky, in that my beloved Mum died when I was just 17, and of course in the passage of time, memories fade, but there are one or two things that I’ll always remember and when I hear, or see them again, reminds me just of her.

Although I didn’t appreciate it at the time, my Mum was quite a fashionable woman. She was a well-respected director’s secretary, and her ‘uniform’ of choice was usually a shift dress with a coat to match set off with a sparkly brooch, or small row of pearls.

An evocative fragrance for me!

An evocative fragrance for me!

She flirted with perfumes, and was always looking for a kind of ‘signature’ smell, and she surely did find it when Estee Lauder launched YOUTH DEW.  My Mum was overjoyed, and from her very first bottle, she was hooked, you definitely smelt her gorgeousness, before you actually saw her, and when she left the room, her fragrance remained long after!

It’s not a fashionable perfume now of course, but when an elegant lady of advancing years passes me by wearing it I can easily identify it.

My Mum had a sister who lived hours away from us, in the north of England, but every few months, my auntie would travel down to London, and we’d all meet up at Lyons Corner House, then on for some shopping in Selfridges, and sometimes to see a film or a show.

 As a young girl in the 60’sI don’t recall that film censorship was so prevalent then as it is today.  I remember going to see Breakfast at Tiffany’s and even at that age, thinking that Audrey Hepburn was the most wonderful woman.

Moon River still brings back happy thoughts of sitting eating ice-creams served from a tray by a ‘waitress’ in the interval!

Just as today’s young women go to concerts to see  Michael Buble and Gary Barlow, my Mum’s ‘hero’ was a singer called Frank Ifield.  A handsome blonde man, who had the uncanny knack of bringing a kind of yodelling into his love songs!

I do still remember you!

I do still remember you!

My first live concert that I ever saw was at the once famous London Palladium, and I’m sure I saw I my Mum swooned as the handsome young man sang ‘I Remember You oooooo’!   When I hear it now on the radio, I smile at the thought of her being entranced as she watched him sing it on the big stage.

I really envy 60 year old daughters who still have their old Mum in their life. So many grumble and groan about the responsibility of looking after them, but I’d give my right arm to have to look after mine now.

What brings back happy memories of your beloved parents?