Good news! It’s not just me! All my friends have strange men lurking in their closets, too. Metaphorically speaking, of course… Somewhere around the fourth bottle of ASDA plonk last night, the horror stories started to emerge. It was like something out of a Twilight movie.
Between us we have dated:
Oh yes, we’ve all been out with him. Several times.
I mean, honestly. I know we’re in our forties. Nobody’s expecting Mr-All-Night-Piston-Penis, but please! Is it too much to ask for Mr-Slightly-More-Tarzan-Than-Jane?
Now, had it just been me, I could’ve understood it; I’m not maturing like a fine wine, for example. No, I’m aging more like that avocado, forgotten in the back of your fridge – squishy, wrinkled and bruised. But my mates are gorgeous, vivacious, intelligent women. They have personality, boobs and everything!
It can’t be them.
No, there’s definitely something weird going on with middle-aged men; they’re lost and lonely, weedy and needy. For the love of Mars Bars and other things holy, where have all the bastards real men gone?