Friend of Ours

Death and divorce can bring some unlikely friends into your sphere.

And so it was that tonight we went to see Quantum of Solace with Unexpected Friend. In fact we went to see the last 007 movie with him. Unfortunately on that occasion it was a screen we'd never been to before and it turned out to be on a decaying industrial estate in the arse-end of Lee Valley (near to the site of our grand 2012 Olympics) and was preceeded by visiting the next-door themed-eatery that clearly was operated by people that didn't realise that a restaurant should generally serve edible food. Even the 'it's impossible not to get wrongt' Caesar Salad was completely indigestible. This time we went from east to west, ending up in Fulham Broadway, enjoyed a very entertaining movie before retiring to Yo Sushi to eat our fill. All very good.

Unexpected Friend is a nice person...in fact a good friend, and indeed it's always a very pleasent time we have when we see him. And he is the sort of person that I think in times of need we could rely on to provide support.

So that to me is a good friend.

But the thing is, Unexpected Friend was The Boy's Mum's long-term partner after she and I explosively went our separate ways. And without question at the time I was portrayed as the Devil incarnate, so on the few occasions when we came face to face never a word was spoken. He and The Boy's Mum were together for a couple of years I think...and then (explosively) went their separate ways (in the words of the prodigal Godfather..."With her it's always bloody). And of course that had meant that for two years Unexpected Friend was AN IMPORTANT MAN in the boy's life, but after the split he had become one of the disappeared.

Roll on to the time of the funeral and beyond, and he re-appeared. And this was a good thing...I wanted the boy to have as much continuity in his life and felt UF was an important anchor, so have since encouraged the contact. I know the boy was happy with this...UF is a cognescenti of the gadget world..so was able to talk about the things important to a growing lad.

And so it has continued, and I'm very pleased. But here's a strange thing. The boy refuses to make arrangements to see UF and insists it is down to me to do. I've asked why, but I've got no answer to my question. I know the boy likes to see him...and enjoys his company, but is reluctant, or at least hesitant to keep the communication flowing. Quite confusing....

More, more, more (2)

There are some things in life that we can never have too much it seems.

Women, all women love shoes. And bags.

Me, I can never have enough watches (I stopped buying when I realised it was costing me nigh on £150 a year in batteries to keep them ticking). Shoes (yes I'm in touch with my feminine side). Property (I've never been able (willing) to sell when I ought). Bank accounts (or rather overdrafts). And there's plenty more.

Inspite of my best endeavours to teach the boy not to follow in the footsteps of his father, he too is a compulsive acquirer (acquisitionalist?). Hair products...her gel, hair mouse, hair wax, hair spray. All in the cause of teenage vanity. Bags (is he in touch with his feminine side too?)..he always needs a new one. Watches (following in my footsteps, but at least here I can say no). Socks (he has enough to cloth a millipede) but they're always in Brighton when he's in Buckhurst Hill and in Buckhurst Hill when he's in Brighton. Guitars ( I bought him one, he bought him one and step Granddad gave him one). Three seems a lot to me who's never been able to learn an instrument. Books (he has a bigger library now than I had when I'd passed through our educational system) but that's a good thing and I'm always ready to expand my overdraft on this count.

More, more, more (1)

I celebrated a no-small victory this morning. And the reason for my glee was that I had escaped the house without having got into a verbal scrap wih the boy. And that was an achievement. One (endearing) thing he inherited from his mum was the ability to keep gently winding me up for no reason until I wolud snap. I became wise to this early on with the boy's mum, and generally enjoyed the sport which could provide a whole evening's entertainment at a far lower cost than heading down the pub. Almost invariably I would lose...I would just get to the point of thinking I'd won, fending off gentle dig after gentle dig, that I could smugly sit down with a little grin on my face knowing that I'd WON. Only to be caught out by a final glancing comment that would fill the room with a red mist.

Realising that the subtlties of all this will be lost as I've editied out so much...here we go...please have patience...

So the digging started after I had been taxi-driver for Friday night's Halloween party. Are we going to Brighton? Yes, why? No reason. Saturday. When are we off to Brighton? Soon why, do you want to say something? No. 10 minutes later. Oh it's just that some of us are meeting up in Loughton, but it doesn't matter. Are you sure? Yes, it's fine. OK good - you've not been to the south coast for a month. Yes....ur um.

FFWD to Sunday (missing out why it took us four hours to drive to Brighton on Saturday) and a brief visit to Wakehurst Place for a long walk. Sulky bored looks. And it was time to go. Sunday evening. Is it alright to put my rugby kit on for a quick wash. But I've done the washing...has that been festering in your bag for the last two weeks? Yes. Well see what else there is. There's nothing. OK if you're sure. 10 minutes later. What are these underpants on the bathroom floor? Two hours later. I guess I'll put all the towels on to wash now?

FFWD to Monday morning. It's nice to have clean towels isn't it? I don't know, it's been so long.

Grrr

Justified ancients

I can't help but feel that justice is rarely done...well at least not in the right way anyway. So Russell Brand has resigned, and Jonathan Ross will forfeit a million and a half pounds of not hard-earned cash. Russell Brand I cannot understand how he has achieved fame and fortune because I can detect no talent so I'm glad he's gone Jonathan Ross I've always quite liked...but recently he does seem to have lost touch and just got too full of himself...his Friday night show has been firmly off my watching list for a few weeks now. But it turns out that Georgina Baillie is a porn star...thank you popbitch for that...so it's a shame that there's a twist in the justice being meated out here. I'm so glad to see Andrew Sachs has come out of this as the most fair-minded and dignified of people. He goes high on my list of people I'd love to have lunch with.

In the same way, I was delighted that the judges decided that we are all entitled to do what we like in private providing it's legal, and not have it plastered all over the tabloids. Not that it's something I think I need to worry about. It's just a shame that it was the pretty unsavoury Max Mosely and his even more unsavoury practices which have enshrined this in law.

And now, in possibly the ultimate in irony, Porsche has managed to get one over on the hedge funds which have been the poison coarsing through the veins of western economies for the last decades. For me it's deeply satisfying, but I can't help but feel that it's case of bitng off the hand that feeds you. We shall see.

And back to Mr Sachs. It has only because of this little controversy that I realised that in my head I had managed to confuse said Mr Sachs and Tony Robinson of Baldrick and making holes in the ground fame. I know they're different people...I've always known, but for some reason my brain and merged them. Oh dear.

Oh yes and I still don't understand why so many column inches including the ones above have been devoted to Mr Ross and Mr Brand's puerile behaviour.

My family and other animals

In a break from recent tradition, I've not used a song title to head this post...but then what could be better than a bit of Gerald Durrell - a favourite read when I was knee high to a grass hopper, and also enjoyed by the boy too.

Cyprus is an interesting place for us to visit. On the one hand completely familiar as we're visiting family, but on the other a place which is absolutely foreign in landscape, architecture and culture. We had a fabulous seven days soaking up the sun in temperatures near 30 degrees, and given my avowed dislike of 'beach holidays', I sheepishly have to admit to spending every day on one beach or another.

Going home to mummy, it's a strange feeling to go from being from being Dad head of house to being young son again, even just for a week...I'm not sure the boy noticed I'd turned back to being fifteen, but I certainly appreciated not having to be too grown up for a few days.

Almost as soon as we arrived on a balmy Saturday evening, I realised that my quest for the week was to be to see as many new creatures as possible in this semi-exotic land. On the fence chez Grandma inCyprus was a praying mantis. Clearly, he was praying for me to go away, as my snapping away with camera led him to vacate the premises the next morning, having been in residence for the previous fortnight. Other creatures at the house included a glorious Green Frog, about the size of a match box, which had been eyeing up a tasty (small) mantis for its supper. Unfortunately, we came along and rather disturbed the balance of nature, causing Kermit to leap a couple of meters onto the boy's chest before disappearing over the car and into the bushes. A pair of gorgeous deep red dragon flies spent the week sunbathing by the pool, only flying off to chase away any other trying to challenge their territory. Couldn't think why they spent their time by the pool...it's not as if there was anything in the chlorine-treated water for them to feast on...but each to their own.

Down in the sea, I lost count of the number of brilliantly coloured fish darting in and out of the rocks. We had great fun snorkling around and occasionally throwing some stale bread for them to enjoy...it was an amazing sight to see them swim at a rate of knots to get a nibble. I nearly got knocked down in the rush. My favourites, were - an octopus that spent a couple of days curled up semi-coverd in a hole in a rock before deciding it was time to flee the nest. Amazing how they blend in, and look so ungainly perched on rock, but are so elegant when swimming. Cuttlefish...again amazingly elegant and graceful until they decide you're too close and then turn on the jet propulsion to escape our noseyness. And finally, my sheer joy and glee to be swimming off the beach at the ghost city of Famagusta and to be overtaken by a turtle...sheer magic. I was like a wide-eyed boy in Hamleys the night before Christmas.

Flamingos standing in the lakes near the airport naturally brought to mind the ancient joke of "Why do flamingos stand on one leg? Because if they lifted the other one up, they'd fall over." Well it still made me laugh.

The only creatures I wasn't so keen on were the mosquitoes who came out to dine...my legs were a veritable feast they had saved themselves for. Also perhaps the jelly fish which I accidently stroked gently..it didn't seem to react, so that took the sting out of the situation....

I was saddened, and reminded of my father, one day to be lying on the beach and to have a man with Parkinsons walk past. He had the same far away look on his face, still smiling, but with his arm shaking badly. His companion walked some 25 yards behind him, watching attentively. He spent a long time in the sea, but at one stage he was oblivious to the fact that his swimming trunks had descended to his knees. It worried me that he would follow the same patten as Dad...not a happy journey for anyone to have to face.


The boy overcame his first experience of snorkling last year...without thinking he put on the snorkel and dived down, not realising he would get a gallon on salty water to choke on. This time, he got the benefit of being able to spend loads of time surveying the sea bed for creatures and was rewarded with the sight of some monstrous fish 'leaping' off the sea bed and gobbling up an innocent passer by. mmmm delicious. In fact his joy of being able to swim in such clear, warm waters was such that he took his mobile into the water with him. It was forgotten in his swimming shorts, and fifteen seconds after he dived in, he was shouting "oh no, oh no, oh God no" I thought there was was some nasty trying to get him, and was ready to dive in and fend it off as he stood up and 'fished' the soggy phone out of his pocket. He was distruaght...and I was relieved to the extent that I couldn't help making a joke of it...and reminding him of an occasion on holiday with his mum in Greece five years ago when he'd dived into a swimming pool with Game Boy in the same pocket. The phone is now an 'ex-parrot' as John Cleese might say. Phew that'll save on the bills.

We found some sunken treasure - One Euro which had been lying at the bottom of the sea for long enough for it to be well and truly weathered...

The boy also got on the back of Grandma's scooter with me again...the first time he'd done so since we'd come off my Vespa three and a half years ago..he ended up with a broken foot (I can't spell metatarsal) whilst I walked away unscathed. Still it did make me nervous buzzing around in nothing more than our shorts and T-shirts (and skid lids), when in England we'd never go out in anything less than full body-armout. But hey, that's holidays for you.

Unfortunately we didn't manage the day out on the power boat...a rather unseasonal and definitely uncharitable thunderstorm in the morning, kept us in dock...but sometimes, for whatever reason, these things are not to be. Still the absence of the day trip meant the boy got to spend a few hours jamming on his guitar with neighbour Phil and step-grandad Joe. I've a sneaking suspicion it was the highlight of his week. We also survived an earthquake, evidently, but as I was snoozing at the time I guess I can't say that the earth moved for me.

So now back to the daily routine...brrr it sure is chilly here in Blighty!

Olivers Army

The boy was away this weekend at his first cadet camp. Excitement had been high in the week running up to it, but that didn't mean that he thought to make sure that we had everything that was on his kit list. The net result was a last minute Friday night dash to Waitrose on the way to meet the prodigal uncle for a a celebratory meal at Buckhurst Hil's finest (and actually one of the UK's) Indian restaurants.

This gave me a free weekend. Personal space and time. Hurrah. So what wild things did I get up to? A salacious time at Brighton's seediest night clubs? The chance to catch up with much missed friends, or even family? A gorgeous meal at a great restaurant?

Erm, well no. I headed to Ikea (oh no, not again) to pick up a couple of things (actually, is it possible to ever get out of Ikea with a bill of less than £200...I've never ever achieved that, often picking up stuff that's really not really not needed). After that I headed down to the flat by the sea, achieving precisely nothing all weekend...at least it was a warm and sunny time to do nothing very much on the coast.

I've been planning for when at some stage the boy would fly the nest...university was my target date (and as I've mentioned to him on one or two or several dozen occasions, when he leaves for higher education that is the time that I stop the real job, climb on the, as yet phantom motorcycle, and spread my own wings). And I've also known that as he heads through his teenage years, my role would increasingly be reduced to taxi driver and funds provider. But I hadn't really realised that at the tender age of 13, he would not be around all the time. So this is an unexpected bonus...but I need to change my mindset slightly, open up that little black book of mine and renew old friendships...as well as gallop into a whole set of new ones. Hurrah!

After all I have no intention of spending my middle years watching endless repeats on TV, wearing a hole in the carpet in front of the sofa!

Watching the detectives

I've come to the conclusion that now is the time to be rid of film ratings. I've been wondering for a while...in fact since finding out that when the boy was still at primary school, certain of his friends were allowed by their very well educated parents to watch Quentin Tarantino films...the boy himself was given the opportunity one sleepover to watch a film that gave him nightmares for weeks afterwards.

Mind you these were at the same parents that thought it fine to give the boys bangers to put into bags of flour to see the mess they could make when the went off with a bang. The boy returned home from that little venture with half a dozen bangers in his pocket. He never returned for their hospitality again. So the point being, that if the parents ignore the certficate, then there's not much point having them in the first place.

This year we went to see the latest Batman film...rated a twelve, but in places so menacing, that I think more appropriate for a fifteen/sixteen year old. And just recently I watched Sweeney Todd, which achieved an 18 rating, although the violence was so surreal, that I doubt it could seriously impact on a younger viewer; by contrast, No Country for Old Men is just a 15, yet the violence is menacing and graphic and the emotion behind deeply impactful.

More confusingly is that I've taken the boy to films at the cinema perfectly legally, yet when we've gone to buy the DVD a few months later, it's jumped up a rating, so technically he shouldn't watch it, nor the Playstation game that seeems to accompany every movie masterpiece these days.

Monster Mash

It's just about tthe middle of October, and for the first time not a word has been mentioned about Halloween. And that's a surprise. Usually we have two months of trick or treat planning, with me living in dread of having to be the escort the boy and his friends to make sure that only the right sort of mischief happens. The rot set in I think when we moved to the Forest, where the trick or treat culture was not widely accepted amongst the coiffured Essex parents ( presumably fake blood and rubber masks interfere with golden tans and bleached locks), so it was always a struggle to find accompanying children to terrorise (sorry I mean entertain) the neighbourhood and in any case, knocking on doors could be quite unrewarding in all senses.

Back in deepest, darkest Finsbury Park, it was an annual highlight with every house stuffed full to the gills with sweets and other delights so that a continuous trail of hideously made-up children could be satiated. In fact it was so busy that you could end up queuing at the best houses...it was easy to know which ones to go to as they always had a halloween lamp in the window...I suppose that's much the same as the red lights in the windows of certain houses in Amsterdam (I'm told).

Hopefully though we will still get to carve a pumpkin lamp which is always messy fun...several years ago, we bought a kit from Sainsbury's which had fantastically elaborate templates, and it's been used every year since to create weird and wonderful illuminations which take pride of place in the living room window until eventually they go soft and a little bit smelly.

On the other hand though, perhaps as the boy is now a teen, child like activities should be consigned to the memory bank just like the Disney movies which I no longer get to see (why wouldn't he come with me to see Wall E?). At least there's the DVDs to watch.

Bring me sunshine

In just over a week we're off to the wonderful warm, sunny eastern mediterranean to visit Grandma in Cyprus (hello grandma). It's exciting for a number of reasons including - sunshine and warmth have been badly missed this year and we need to recharge our batteries - I'm very fed up with nodding off at 9.00 in the middle of some repeat on Dave; also Grandma was lucky enough to win a day out on a luxury power boat complete with lucnh and sea scooter...and as it is for four people, the boy and I get to share in the win...providing the water's not too choppy (evidently); not fogetting that it will be nice to catch up; grandma has bought a scooter so we can zap around as we like

However, there will be some downsides. Firstly, I'm sure I'll get it in the neck for failing to settle down (again)...I want to ask what it is about our family that everyone seems to discourage keeping in touch....it's a strange anomaly....and, well, that's it really.

The excitment mounts....!

money, money, money

Timing is everything. It seems that inspite of renaming my diary only at the weekend, now is in fact the time to panic...certainly in the city there is nothing but blind panic and there is no manual to read. Just a year or so ago I remember reading a survey that showed we had more trust in our banks than we do in our local councils or national politicians...and that trust in our national institutions had declined at an alarming rate over the last decade. But now it seems that the bedrock of UK plc is in tatters and there is no one left to trust.

The current financial shannanigans, has caused a mild sweat to break out...my father's will has still not been sorted out (why do the authorities take so long when you really need these things sorted out with military precision so you can move on emotionally) and the tidy sum that constitutes my inheritance is tied up in HBOS. Reassurances from the IFA that the government won't let the Halifax go down, have been said whilst he has his fingers firmly crossed I'm sure. Hopefully today's action by the government will help, but I foresee many months of uncertainty ahead. And I'm certainly better off than my colleague who has some thousands of pounds in Icesave and even as I write is probably running round wondering whether she will ever see her money again. Thank heavens her impressively grounded husband will be a calming influence!

The inheritance is important because for almost my entire life Dad only ever gave cash, albeit generous amounts, as Christmas and birthday presents, and it seems that his parting gift will be only cash...not even a token of something that was truly him. So I'd like to get it out of the way, just to give me a space to reflect on our relationship. It's for this reason that I strain myself creatively when it comes to buying presents for the boy - last Christmas days were spent trying to track down a tent...not easy to do in mid-winter evidently, and hopefully all my presents are thoughtful, relevant and surprising. That's the aim any way....just please don't mention it's only 79 days to Christmas...time for me to don my thinking cap.

In the WAGS triangle that we inhabit it is custom amongst the boy's contemporaries to give money when they go to each other's parties. I've imposed my own rules on the boy, and he, amongst the few, always roles up with a present...sometimes this may be an iTunes gift card, sometimes a book, or something else....but never, ever money. It seems all wrong.

What's it all about Alfie?

Evidently the problem with the the House of Representatives failing to pass the bill to pump $700bn into the US financial system was an issue of 'branding'. By referring to it as a 'bailout' it appeared as though typical US taxpayers were stumping up some 2000 McDonalds doughnuts each to keep the wealthy bankers in the lifestyle to which they had become accustomed. Evidently it should have been positioned as a 'financial rescue package for the global economy'. And not withstanding it was the media who continued to refer to it as a bailout, they may have a point. But as someone who earns their crust in the world of branding, it distresses me immeasurably, that my offspring's future can be threatened by a few mis-spoken words. I would have hoped, naively, that the lawmakers of the largest mostly-democratic country could see beyond words and rise to the challenge in hand...I'm glad to see they have second time round.

Now whilst we're on the subject of branding, it has become time to rebrand this diary. Before I started writing I spent weeks trying to think of a decent title, and failed miserably...clutching on to Man and Boy for the lack of anything better. And I've had enough of it. So I've decided to rename as 'Don't panic, RTFM' which refers firstly to the state of panic I found myself in for the first four years of my new found role as both mother and father to the boy, and secondly to a phrase which has been used regularly at home for the last fourteen and a half years. And to go with the new name is a new look still designed by someone who bears the same surname as me, but hopefully it's a little easier on the eye.

I was asked just recently 'Why?', 'What's it for?' Which seemed a fair question to me especially as I am very clear 'why'. Firstly, it's entirely self-indulgent...a record of many of the things that would otherwise get lost in the mists of time as the boy grows up and I grow old; secondly it's therapeutic helping resolve many things that have caused grief in recent years; and lastly I spend my life writing for other people who demand word-perfect, grammar-perfect text which once supplied, they proceed to ruin...so this is my chance to leave typos in and write just what I want when I want. I'm slowly learning the rules...if someone comments I should respond (often I don't because I don't have anything to add..just enjoy their jottings)...I follow the blogs that I really like either because they're well-written, or because they're funny, or because they strike a chord...or any combination of the above. And suspect I would enjoy a glass of wine or a bottle of beer with the authors - but only comment if there's real reason to (too often I see no need). I avoid the professional or semi-professional ones which I suspect are penned by people who having finished typing sit back with an air of smugness. So please indulge me.

Can't read, won't read

Coming home one day this week I was greeted with "I'm dyslexic", "I'm sorry I chortled expecting some hilarious punchline to follow." But no, in all seriousness the boy said, "No, it's true I might be dyslexic". Realising I'd stumbled into quicksand on a B movie set, I sat down and asked him what he was talking about. He patiently explained that his French work was very poor, and his teacher had checked with his French teacher from last year and his House mistress, and there was a evidently a problem. Thinking quickly, I realised that being top of the class in English and History and with nothing other than good to very good grades in any of his literacy subjects, dyslexia was unlikely to be the problem. In my usual gentle fashion, better known as 'bull in a china shop' syndrome, I flushed and told him in no uncertain terms that there was no question, if there was a problem, it was certainly not dyslexia...and then backed it up with the evidence above...and just to put the genie back in the bottle, I said that the school should not under any circumstances say anything like that without tests and without speaking with me first. I said I would speak with the school in the morning.

I finally reached the headmistress ten minutes before she headed off to a meeting...and the gravity of my concerns were made clear to her when I said that I didn't want "that woman" near my child until the matter was resolved. A panicked French teacher called within minutes, and numerous telephone conversations later, it is clear that not much is clear...the teacher denies ever mentioning the 'd' word, but for certain the boy's basic work is in fact very good, although his concentration can wander and mistakes creep in...and equally, the teacher's assertion that the boy was distressed by his mistakes is not borne out by anything...at all.

So probably a hurricane in a teacup and everything is back to normal...but of note:

• the teacher had just been on a 'special needs awereness course' and so was probably oversensitised
• under the confident exterior of a handsome young man lies the uncertainties of a boy going through puberty
• like any mother who feels their offspring being threatened, I will lash out protectively
  

So looks like parents evening in a month's time should be fun....

On the skids

Toilet training is one of those joys of young parenting...or do I mean parenting the young? I'm glad to claim I've never been to a dinner party and had to suffer the joys of listening to new parents talking about their new-born's toilet habits. Fortunately, the boy was an early starter.

Of course, when you get older the question, as mocked by many, is whether the seat should be left up or down. You can imagine that in our all-male household "up" is the way it goes...and you'd be partially right...in the flat by the sea, our new bathroom features a hydraulically damped lid, so there is much joy to be had in it gradually closing all by itself.

But there are other toileting issues. Drips on the rim...a long battle is fought trying to ensure that should there be a drip, it is properly cleaned up at the time. I can almost feel the women throwing their arms up and declaring "Men!", but I have to declare from experience, that women are just as guilty as us boys. And worse still, is checking whether the bowl has been fully flushed after number twos. I don't want to look at other people's skid marks or floaters, in the same way I hope they don't want to inspect mine. In the flat by the sea, this is a particular issue because a) the water pressure is low and b) if it's not flushed properly and we're then away for a fortnight the consequences on return can mean psychological counselling for years afterwards. But it's not just at home...we have a shared toilet in the office and just too often I have to adopt the role of janitor. Pooey

School disco

I had a sad e-mail at the end of last week from an old school friend: "In process of joining the massed ranks of the divorced - keen to hear how to date in London without catching anything!!!"My reply, I hoped was suitably supportive, but elicited the following response, which I found quite shocking, "Yes a shame, no real reason, just end of!!! Now back to the best places to meet younger women in central London (without looking like an old git out of water)". And this from a mid-Forties man, married for nigh-on two decades with three children. Recognising there's a degree of bravado here, it still seems wrong that a marriage could be dismissed so easily.

I remember being shocked about marriage twice before... a sixty something next door neighbour split up from her now-revealed alcoholic husband. It occured to me that at that age, you really should be able to relax with your partner, and not have to go through the trauma of break-up. The second was a friend who lived with her American boyfriend and was pressurised into tieing the knot. Which she duly did at a glorious ceremony in the south of France. A few weeks later, she had changed job and met the man of her dreams. Clearly the decision of a lifetime commitment had been taken for the wrong reasons - I'm glad to say she is still with THE ONE and they have two terrific if somewhat boisterous young lads.

In both cases, it caused me to re-evaluate the concept of marriage...not that either one stopped me doing what I still regard as extraordinarily romantic...I met and married in 99 days. We were divorced five years and five days later. Some sort of perfect symmetry.

So for the boy, I hope he meets and chooses the right person, and when they get to know each other properly, they live happily ever after. As they do in all the best fairy tales.

Equally I despair of my schoolfriend who thinks that dating in mid-life is the same as going to the school disco and grabbing the best-looking girl for a sweaty-clinch for the slow dance at the end of the night. Oh those were the days!