A strange thing has happened. Dapper elderly gentlemen seem to have a soft spot for me (no 'I know where they keep their soft spot' jokes, thank you). God knows why, because I'm a scruffy Northern herbert.
It all started a while back. I'd had a lovely day out with The Scot. Dusk had fallen and we'd wandered into a little drinkery just off Jermyn Street. Following a few tipples, we had a saunter back up Piccadilly. As we approached Waterstones, I noticed a rather smart gentleman coming out. The rather smart gentleman noticed me too and we held each other's gaze. Then he smiled and said "Hello". Naturally, I smiled and replied a "hello" because it was none other than Bill Fucking Nighy. I then had a bit of a swoon against The Scot, who I'm sure found all this very amusing.
I had a bit of a moment at the Leonard Street party with another remarkable old chap. We caught each other's eye and he smiled (it's getting to be a habit), so I smiled back. As he went past me, there was a wonderful smell, a faint whiff of patchouli. About 80, with the most startling blue eyes and a shock of thick, pure white hair.
Later that day, we bumped into each other and struck up a conversation. I told him that patchouli is my favourite fragrance in the world. It wasn't cheap hippy shite he was wearing, but perhaps something you'd get from Santa Maria Novella in Florence (Piccadilly Arcade in London). He was thrilled, and when we parted with a hug, he told me I had the most beautiful green eyes and that said he'd drop by sometime (the charming old bugger). Yeah, course you will, I thought. A fascinating character.
Imagine my astonishment when I arrived at the office this morning to an envelope on my desk from my old gentleman. Posted last Saturday, stamped and addressed, with 'PERSONAL' printed in the top corner. I love getting post, me. An easy way to make me happy - send me stuff through the post (no shit-in-a-jiffy-bag, you lot). It was a lovely postcard, with artistic handwriting, telling me he'd drop by soon. A calling card - I love this. Proper, old-fashioned stuff. Take note, you email/text boys - this is way more stylish (with potentially less instant gratification than Skype sex, though...).
He did drop by - today. Immaculate in a blue gingham shirt, chinos and dark red Converse (he's wearing Converse, for fuck's sake), we had a bit of a chinwag (he's very interesting - used to work as an art director at Dorlands back in the 60s - how very Mad Men) and he asked me if he could see me again...I think I'm being courted by an 80 year old chap.
Needless to say, when I told The Ladies, they didn't see the old-fashioned, innocent charm of it all the same way I did. No "how lovely" or "he sounds like a sweetie". No. I got the following:
"Are you going to nosh him off?" - The Boss
"I wonder how baggy his ball sac is - you could keep your lipstick and keys in there on a night out." - S
"Think of that scene in SATC when Samantha watches that droopy old arse going off to the bathroom" - K
And this from Lou W:
Bunch of filthy evil-minded witches (but funny nonetheless).
(Postscript: astonished by the feminine reaction to my new friendship (over dinner at the weekend, my older sister raised her eyebrows and thought I should 'be careful" - !!! Eh??? In what way? In case I catch geriatric clap off his postcard? Wink suggestively at my lovely old chap and give him a coronary?), I sought the view of a slightly younger gentleman friend. Scooter Steve suggests that if any other woman he knew had a friendship like this, he might think it a bit odd. But that where I'm concerned, it's not even worth batting an eyelid at. And quite charming. Thank you, Scooter Steve. I may even allow you to have a much butcher moniker on my blog now.)
