I'm still a bloke magnet
.... for the steak and lamb butchers at the Queen Vic Market: "Come over here darlin', I've got legs on sale that are even better than yours!"
.... for fat fifty-something guys driving white delivery vans: "Nice knockers for an old chick."
....for my local postie (as he handed me over my fifth parcel of chocolate samples): "I reckon that you could be my ideal woman."
.... for the toothless drunk who sits on the park bench by the railway station: "ShowushyertitshSchweetie, c'mere"
.... for male dogs who like to demonstrate their animal attraction against my leg or by actively sniffing my bum when I crouch down to pat them
.... for four year old boys who enjoy my fart jokes and, when visiting my house for the first time, rush into the bathroom and yell, "WOWee you've got toothbrushes that PLUG into the WALL!"
.... for anyone reeking of stale cigarettes and vodka but needing $2 to take the bus home
.... for Rain-Men in nipple-grazing high-pants who like to chat on trams. "I live by myself now you know, which is why I've got this shopping cart here, see?"
.... for old security guys temporarily plucked out of retirement who left their specs at home and insist on seeing ID before I can buy a champers at the races "Yer a spring chicken, yes you are love."
.... for the rotund bloke in the straining, too-small ACDC t-shirt who smokes on the balcony of the second floor flat next door and sees me burst out of the shed after my run; huffing, puffing and sweating profusely. "Morning mate, well done," and gives me the thumbs up signal.
.... for Love Chunks.
He leaves for an overseas work trip to France today and refused to let me come along as his 'other' and share his accommodation (of course I'd pay for the flight and sort out care for Sapphire and Milly and Skipper) because he's worried about abusing his travel privileges and the taxpayer dollar.
I'm frustrated at this sedate stance that sets him apart from nearly everyone else I know who travels for work (including everyone else attending the same conference that he is) and jealous about the location he's visiting (Toulouse) and sad when I realise that my own self-preserving career choices mean that generously funded-trips are never going to feature in my future so I snort and call him a POG which stands for Pompous Old Git and only partly mean it as a joke yet I'm already aching at the thought of him not being here with me for a week or so and miss his strong arms, smell, feel, voice, eyes, POGgy humour.........