Talking of fancying a handyman ...

"Remember, when you see an old lady on the street, you simply can’t know what goes on in her knickers."

I had a new visitor to my blog yesterday: Code Name Nora, and when I made a return visit to her new blog, I found this statement in a recent post of hers, which I recommend you to read before going on with mine.

Nora is an octogenarian, (as I shall be in 12 days' time), and she is clearly one like me who likes to tell it like it is. Only I think she is braver and blunter than I am, although she tells me she nearly lost her nerve with this post, as I have sometimes done with mine.

In her post Nora acknowledges that she still burns with desire, which is something I have not managed to say here, although there are plenty of hints here and there, if you read my posts labelled "Missing it". I have just checked though, and found that I had not even had the nerve to include that label in my list of Blogs Topics in the sidebar, so how would anyone find it? I have put that right now. But I wonder if anyone will understand the label, anyway. I was trying to say what I meant without being crude, and I probably fell between two stools.


So Nora, who is burning over there in the States, while I am burning here in the UK, will encourage each other, I hope, to keep the bright flame of elderly honesty and openness alight.


She tells me, by the way, that "We Yanks got 'knickers' from you Brits and it's a great word." I didn't know that. We have a singer-songwriter here in the UK, called Sandra Kerr, who has written a splendid song called "Big Knicker Blues". I wish I knew how to put a sound track on my blog, but failing that, here are the words:

Big Knicker Blues *

Now if like me, you’re a woman of a certain age
You’ll be wearing an article of clothing which is all the rage
They are generous in size, they reach from your waist down to your thighs
I’m singing the wear ‘em thicker, Big Knicker blues.

Big Knickers, you really oughta try ‘em
Big Knickers, I’ll tell you where to buy ‘em
Wear Big Knickers and you can’t go wrong
Especially when winter drawers on.

I don’t want a gusset that’s an inch and pinches underneath
I want a seat that’s more complete than a pocket handkerchief
I want them long and I want them wide, I want them soft and fleecy inside
I’m singing the wear ‘em thicker, Big Knicker blues.

Big Knickers, let’s keep them in proportion
Big Knickers, don’t go into contortions
Wear Big Knickers and you can’t go wrong
Especially when winter drawers on.

I tell you friend, it’s not the end if you wear great big pants
It’s really nice, it adds some spice and fun to your romance
And if you’re not prepared to sin, they’ll stop anybody from getting in,
I’m singing the wear ‘em thicker, Big Knicker blues.

Big Knickers, I love my passion killers
Big Knickers, they make useful stocking fillers
Wear Big Knickers and you can’t go wrong
Especially when winter drawers on.

Later or sooner, every bloomer will have had its day
Instead of white and shining bright, they go all limp and grey
Then cut them up for cleaning rags, use ‘em for shopping as carrier bags
I’m singing the wear ‘em thicker, Big Knicker blues.

Big Knickers, who cares for style and beauty
Big Knickers, just give me heavy duty,
Wear Big Knickers and you can’t go wrong
Especially when winter drawers on.

Big Knickers, you’ve all got ‘em coming to ya
Big Knickers, Be my comfort, alleluya!
Wear Big Knickers and you can’t go wrong
Especially when winter drawers …..
I’ll show you mine if you show me yours
Especially when winter drawers on.

* Copyright Sandra Kerr

Atherosclerosis

Even elderly sclerotic blood vessels like mine have enough flow space left in them for the sap to rise a little on a day like today. The first real feel of spring was in the air when I went shopping in the local town. As I locked my car and set off for the centre, my spine straightened - (well, that must have been an illusion, but it felt like it) - and a spring came into my step. And lordy! lordy! what's this I'm feeling now? A surge of yearning? No, it's positively a sense of arousal..... and bang goes my hard won acceptance of age and increasing decrepitude.

Nobody even worth smiling at in my line of vision unfortunately.... which reminds me that I'm still trying to work out how to flirt in an appropriate way at the age of 79. But the mood of renewal sticks around for a while, and after printing out a statement in the bank, showing a debit balance, I go on to spend too much money on things I don't need. Shall I have lunch in town? No, better hurry home before I commit worse follies, either of expenditure or of misplaced sexual reawakening.

Tomorrow it will probably be snowing again, and I shall have to renew the struggle against the temptations of salty crisps, chocolate and Danish pastries. If I work hard at that, I might put my photo up on one of the online dating websites..... or I might not.

What turns me on? - continued

Commenting on my post yesterday, Lillie said: "It seems we've found that beauty really is in the eye of the beholder". She is right, but I would add that it is also in the mind of the observer. After thinking about it some more, I have come up with some criteria for attractive partners.

As I said before, I am attracted by talent: in drama, writing, music, comedy, dance - if a man can not only dance well, but can take me round a dance floor and lead me so that I don't falter, he is a winner.

I am attracted to someone from whom I can learn, and who is prepared to teach me.

I am attracted to someone who expects a lot from me and challenges me to extend my own boundaries.

I am attracted to someone with a sense of the ridiculous, of fantasy and of romance.

And - borrowed from Lillie - I am attracted to someone who is verbal and articulate and expressive.

Any one of these would do.......

What turns me on?

This is a picture of singer-songwriter Jake Thackray. I don't even know if I'm supposed to have it, and I don't know who to acknowledge for it. If someone can tell me I will gladly give them credit. It's a scan of a blown up photo, so is not very sharp, but the charm is still there for me.


So what does turn me on? After reading Lee's blog on Boundaries, and Lillie’s response, I have been trying to work it out. I don’t think pictures, as pictures, do anything for me generally: not nudity, over-developed muscles, sexual organs, hair, tattoos, bum fissures, fancy pouches and unnatural poses. I think Lillie put her finger on it when she found a picture to post, only because she had seen the man move and knew his work as an actor.

The picture I have posted appeals to me because I have seen Jake on TV and film and I too know his work pretty well. His talent turns me on. Also his unaccustomed smile here, as most pictures show him to have been a man with a long lugubrious face with hooded eyes - a beau laid as the French say, or ugly in an attractive way. I also have a great weakness for men in white rollneck sweaters. I just ache to get my arms round them!

In the flesh, the ugly can have an irresistible charm, and I am also drawn to tall men, large noses, and long dancer’s legs. But for the quick clench of the stomach and the indrawn breath I think one needs the totally unexpected, as in this diary entry I made in July 2001, when my house was being rewired during a heatwave:

- The 30-year-old electrician stripped to his waist yesterday, it was so hot. His trousers, pockets loaded with tools, sat low on his hips, and his torso was bare to beneath the navel, taught and smooth, an even all-over brown from the sun. Ahh! so beautiful! Why are we able to give ourselves permission only when we are too old to act upon it? God! that stomach – I could have buried my face in it. I hope he couldn’t see the yearning in my eyes, fleeting as it was. It makes me weep as I write……

Tongue in cheek

[My tongue-in-cheek emoticon, which I have rotated, does not enlarge too well, because of the diagonals, but I thought it worth a shot.]



Well, that last blog was fun, but I hope you realise I was 'having a laugh' - at my own expense of course! It was written in a moment of reckless abandon, and your comments are already giving me cause to think more carefully about what I said.

First and foremost (as he is in so much, good friend that he is) Stephen has called me on my "electrifying experiments", and I have had to admit that I cannot at present make good on that claim. I cannot recall any experience I could so describe, but perhaps it is yet to come!

Then I said I had no regrets. Well, I think that is probably true in regard to the majority of the men in my life, but certainly not all, and certainly not about every aspect of my life.

And finally I suggested that alliteration was 'vulgar', which upon reflection I wish to withdraw. In excess, yes, it may well be, but I am sure it is considered a legitimate device in effective writing. And Pauline took up the alliterative challenge with relish in the comments!

I think I must remember in future to use my 'cheekicon' to flag up the post, if ever I have any more moments of 'reckless abandon'.

And now, since we are rapidly approaching Halloween, I offer you my Witchicon, devised a couple of years ago to make a Halloween badge. It really works out quite well, I think. Maybe somebody else can make use of it too.

The men in my life

How about I write an autobiographical book with this title, and make no bones about it? My recurring memories of old boy friends seem to have had a good reception here, and I'm sure there are plenty more to be dug up.

Of course, to be fair, it would have to start with my father, with perhaps a quick backward look at my grandfathers; and then my younger brother. And at this end of my life there are four sons and four grandsons - (sorry, granddaughters!).

But in between, and outside the family: oh boy! what recollections of romance, what moments of madness, what purple passions, what electrifying experiments, what melancholy mistakes, and what sighs of sadness. (Wasn't that fun? I love alliteration, however vulgar a tool it may be.)

Regrets? No. I'm with Edith Piaf here - me and 'The Little Sparrow', we regret nothing.

Jake Thackray rewritten

The crowning glory of my birthday, however, was Keiwit’s offering of a rewrite of one of my favourite Jake Thackray songs, The Lodger. It was a saucy song in its time - (you will find the original lyrics here: http://www.jakethackray.co.uk/content/view/121/26/) and is admirably suited to Keiwit’s interpretation, in which he most accurately conveys my message. If you can possibly find yourself a recording of the song to listen to, I recommend that you do so, as it will help you to appreciate Keiwit’s talent as a parodist. If you follow the link on the left of the page for The Jake Thackray Website, you will find a discography.

Judith's Ideal

My neighbours’ sons were so tall and strapping
They used to play outside my house each day
They used to come even while I was napping
But I’d never tell those boys to go away
There was Billy: he was silly
There was Robbie: t’was his hobby to be critical about my fashion sense
There was Brian: he would try and be so blokey but provoked me
What a joke he had no courteous intents

But they grew up: they reached a new maturity
I saw possibilities of having fun
I’d endured a life of boring purity
So I promised I’d not turn down anyone
And sure enough, they called my bluff
When I was chilly, little Billy
He saw me huddled, so we cuddled for a while
He was sweet: but not discreet – his wand’ring hands, had other plans
He made demands but that is really not my style

"Billy, go away! Don’t make a pass"
"Now, Billy" I must say, "Take your hands off my arse"
"Stay off me henceforth, you must be made to see"
"You must go further north – to engage me!"

Well, after all, I'm still young and rather pretty
And I have time to choose my perfect man
So preferably I'd go for someone witty
And I’d never just go out with what I can
I’m not snobby but then Robbie
Tried his luck, the little schmuck
But his lids they never did stray from my chest
I did advise him to my eyes, but he declined quite unrefined
So I untwined and made a citizen’s arrest

"Robbie, go away! Robbie you’re a pest"
"Now, Robbie," I must say, "I’m really not impressed"
"It seems once again, I’ve picked the wrong boy"
"You must use my brain – I’m not a toy"

I felt quite down, and worried for the future
I thought there would be no one there for me
I might not ever use my Kama Sutra
But then came Brian my lucky number three
He was perplexing, never vexing
Quite engaging, hormones raging
Intellect he could collect me any time
And it was good, he understood, with that fine man, a love began
Because he can share my great passion for a rhyme

"Brian, come to bed! I won’t ask you twice"
"Now Brian look," I said, "I can be very nice"
"I'll do what you like, I think we connect"
"That’s because you’ve shown me proper respect"
[© Keiwit -November 2005]

I was so touched by this tribute that I had tears running down my face as I shut down my computer and went to bed that night.

Birthday badinage

BIRTHDAY BADINAGE

November 29th was my 78th birthday. I don’t usually make much of birthdays, but this one was remarkable for an unexpected outbreak of versifying in my honour. To set the scene I should explain that it happened in an online discussion forum to which I belong, and where, because it is a small group, most of whom know each other personally, a fair degree of outspoken banter and badinage is current. I should also mention that an entirely erroneous myth has grown up in this forum that my mind is set on acquiring a toyboy! Keith D opened the greetings with:

Happy birthday Jude.
At seventy-eight
I’ve gotta say, dude,
That you’re looking great.

But then he added the following, occasioned by a remark of mine that ‘Callipygea’ would make a nice pseudonym. (It seems ‘callipygean’ means ‘having beautifully proportioned buttocks’):

Of things callipygean
you’ve more than a smidgeon
but no one could say you were plump.
Could it be that your gluteus
is really quite beauteous
or do you just have a nice rump?

Further comments and conjectures relating to my rump ensued, until I observed rather sharply that a change of topic was called for, particularly as my rear end is nothing to write home about - (or as Keith said "Judith’s bum is just ho-hum"). Later I apologised for being peevish, and Keith produced the following (loosely based on Elvis’s ‘Trouble’):

Woke up this morning
I was seventy-eight
Had to see the cardiologist
Had a lot on my plate
Had to take a lot of comments
About my rear
And you still expect me to grin from ear to ear

Well, I'm peevish.
Acerbity's my middle name
Oh yes, I'm peevish
But so far I've been pretty tame

Just one more allusion
To my backside
And I'll raise a contusion -
Take weeks to subside
You may think that I'm easy
'Cos I'm getting old
But I can tell you things, boy, you ain't never been told

Because I'm peevish
And I'm starting to lose my cool
Oh yes, I'm peevish
So don't mess around with me, you fool.

Wanna make me happy?
Then praise my tits
And maybe my legs
But no other bits
And the jokes about toyboys
Just get on my wick
Make me feel like clouting you with my broomstick

Oh yes, I'm peevish
'Cos you're all picking on little Jude
You better stop now
Or we'll have a reg'lar old feud.

[To be continued tomorrow]

Hunks & Sexpots

Today when S-J - (my cleaner-cum-adopted granddaughter) - was here, I mentioned that I had a boiler service booked for the afternoon. "Let's hope they send you a hunk" she said. "Fat chance" I replied, "they only send the older, world-weary ones". So when to my surprise a presentable young man turned up, I let him in to my garage, then went back into the house to tell S-J that they'd sent me a hunk after all.

She grumbled that by not letting him through the house, I hadn't given her a chance to see him, and I opened up a connecting door so she could give him a sly once-over while he worked. "I'll soon tell you if he's a minger" she said. He was neat and presentable - and polite and helpful as it turned out - but she declared him not worthy of our attention. From there the conversation became too personal to be repeatable here.

**************

I think it was Sheila who started it all when I stayed with her and Steve in August. I got confused between a Game Boy and a Play Station, and referred to a "PlayBoy". Sheila accused me of having my mind on toyboys, and from there we moved on to speculate with much giggling on the possibility of designing a "Catch the toyboy" computer game especially for the mature woman.

Word must have got out in our on-line discussion group, as not long after Keiwit referred to me as "our 77-year-old sexpot" - me! Later, when I was asking about what I should wear for Sheila's Surprise Birthday Party, I said that it was not a question of hiring something posh, but rather of impulse buys hanging unused in the cupboard. Keith D, who likes to play the neologism game*, came back quick as a flash with:

"Impulse boys - things Judith picks up while shopping. I trust they're well hung, madam!"

I must admit though, I do play up to this richly undeserved reputation I have acquired.
___________
* where you change, add or delete one letter in a familiar word and invent a new meaning for it.

Echocardiogram

.
"Do you miss sex?" asked S-J suddenly. "Well of course I miss it!" I screamed in my head, though I said "Yes, I do" quietly enough, if feelingly.


I went for my annual echocardiogram the other day, to make sure my heart is still in working order after bypass surgery 12 years ago. Unusually, there was a dishy young cardiac registrar doing the honours, and not the woman technician I remembered. I cheeked him a bit about finishing his lunch, and he responded well. (Cheeking takes the place of flirting if you are 77, and if the young man in question is only in his 20s! But at least you can look out through the eyes of an old woman and think whatever you like, and the object is hardly likely to notice anything.)

"Now that one would have done nicely as a toyboy" I thought to myself. It’s all very well having a joke about toyboys, though - even at my age you can still yearn for the touch of flesh and the gleam in the eye of a predatory male. Imagine it : you lie on a couch, half turned onto your left side, while the operator of the echo machine perches on the edge, nudged up against you so you don’t roll back again. His right arm is round your naked chest, and you lie there leaning against him while he moves the whatsit (scanning mike?) around on your bosom. (Did I mention there was a heatwave, and his sleeves were rolled up?)

Meanwhile you fantasise about being 50 years younger. Fortunately, the body learns to be less reactive than the imagination, and you behave appropriately, while chatting about heart conditions in general, and marvelling at the training which enables him to avoid eye contact, while closely in touch with more intimate parts of you .

"Right" he says eventually, "there’s no change, your heart’s doing fine". Little does he know! Next year he’ll be gone - (I know, because I asked!) - so there’s not even that to look forward to. Ay de mi! Well at least I know I’m still alive.

[The ‘scanning mike’ is called a transducer, and it converts sound waves into images on a monitor screen. (This is not a picture of my own heart however.) Incidentally the doctor told me that there is now a surplus of cardio-thoracic surgeons (to one of whom I owe my life), as less invasive treatments have been developed and doctors need training in these new techniques.][©JudithTaylor2005]

Anniversary

"….. she did hope that at her age she wasn’t going to fall in love ….. And yet which of us can resist falling in love? Of all the manifold temptations open to humankind it must be the most captivating."
Sally Vickers - Instances of the Number 3

I fell in love a year ago
It was most unexpected
For I am rather old and slow
And he was younger, much, and so
My love it was rejected.

The body fails and beauty dies
But still the heart engages -
It learns to look and see what lies
Behind the face that meets the eyes
And takes no heed of ages.

~~~~~~~

But as a wise man once said -

Folly and wisdom
Are two sides of the same coin
Inseparable

- and I soon recovered my senses. It was an enlivening but unsettling experience,
brief as it was.

[©JudithTaylor2005]