Whatever happened to Perry Bacon?

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The year was 1986: George Michael had big hair and was singing with Wham! Kids all over the country were nervously sitting the new GCSE exams. Margaret Thatcher was busy fucking up the country, but took a day off to open the new M25 motorway – the biggest car park in the world. And I fell in love.

I was 19 and in the second year of my teacher training degree. Although we were affiliated to Hatfield Poly, our campus was in Watford, so us girls would bus over there on a weekend, or they’d come to us and crash on our floors. Not that any of us ever slept – we were too busy with parties and live music, end-of-term balls, country pubs and finding lurve. Who am I trying to kid? We were students. All we wanted was beer and sex.

Oh, they were halcyon days…

And smack bang in the middle of this was Perry Bacon. My First Love. Aged 18, studying chemistry and The Finer Points of Theakston’s Ale. I don’t remember how we met. Oh yes, I do. I was dating his mate, David. He was a bit of a knob, too.

Perry had ADHD, but in those days we just called it annoying. He was funny and loveable and smart. Always laughing, generally causing mayhem, and usually chucking beer. Oh yes, whenever I saw him, we’d end up in an infantile, enthusiastic beer fight. What can I say? We were kids. It was foreplay.

And each night apart we’d feed our food money into cramped campus phone booths and smile our way into the early hours, whispering our fears and breathing our dreams along the phone line.

And the funny thing was, we never once spoke about being in love. Never once said the words out loud, or acknowledged it, even. We were friends. Good friends who just couldn’t stop snogging. I bought him a huge floppy teddy bear and that’s how we communicated: ‘Come for the weekend? Theodore really misses you!’ or ‘Tell Theo I need a Bear Hug!’  

Bear Hugs!

And one day, two years later, it was over. I don’t remember the details, but we were on a train travelling through London. I was crying and then he was gone. Or maybe he left, and then I cried. But there were certainly tears. And he definitely got off the train. And I’m pretty sure it was London.

I bloody loved that bloke, and I often wonder: whatever happened to Perry Bacon?

There’s no-one quite like Grandma…

Image by law_keven via Flickr

It seems to me that  young  men on the pull are very much like salesmen. Just as you’ve pushed one off your front step, another one starts ringing the bell!  And they stand there, cocksure, so full of confidence, youth and E numbers, and it’s making me feel like a grumpy old grandma!

Yep, you guessed it; I received a message today from another man-boy young enough to be my son, and it’s driving me crazy! Arrrggghhhh!

And I wouldn’t be quite so deranged if he’d graced his message with a comma. Or a full stop. Or something.

 i put others first and have been hurt many times in the past due to me being soft but thats my nature im looking for a lady who honest loyal wont cheat and can make me happy and when it comes to the bedroom im very experienced as i know human biology 🙂 also i feel offended when older people say im to young for them as age is a number its how you feel that defines your age 🙂 if you block me its ur loss some other lady will benefit from me 🙂  

Good! I hope she enjoys!

And here’s to me, Mrs Robinson…

Image by alphadesigner via Flickr

I seem to be attracting young men. I don’t know why. But it’s scary.

First there was Luigi aged 24. ‘You’re really hot! I’d love to go out with you. I’ve got some photos I could send…’

Well, Roll On the Floor Laughing, I haven’t been called hot since 1985. Once I’d picked myself up and finished wiping the tears from my cheeks, I mailed him back: ‘Luigi, I’m flattered, but I don’t think so! I’m old enough to be your mother. There must be hundreds of gorgeous girls on this site. Find one your own age!’

‘But I’m not into girls. I want a real woman,’ came the plaintiff reply, along with a handful of the promised photos: Luigi dressed up as David Bowie; Luigi sprawled on the beach; Luigi, shirtless and sulking, in front of a mirror.

As a 20-year-old girl I would’ve slobbered all over my laptop, but as a middle-aged old boiler, I just saw the skinny, gorilla-limbs of an adolescent male who hasn’t yet grown into his body. A typical boy in need of a good home cooked dinner and an early night. Alone.

And then came Robo Cat who was 18-years-old. Eighteen! At college studying for A Levels! I mean, honestly! Where would you go on a date with a schoolboy? Homework Club? I suppose I could have asked him over; he could have played X Box and stayed for a sleepover –  with my kids!

No, this was wrong.  Very wrong. And just as I was dealing with him – firm but fair as recommended by all the good parenting books, up popped Luigi again!

‘Please, just meet me for coffee. Give me a chance…’

‘Why are you mailing me? I don’t get it, really. Explain to me the attraction of the older woman!’

‘I just prefer an older woman’s body. They’re more confident with themselves, and the conversation’s more interesting. I bet you could teach me some stuff…LOL 😉

Yeah, I bet I could. Like how to look both ways when you’re crossing the road. And how to tie your shoelaces, and put your toys away just before bedtime. LOL. Not.

And lastly there was Tango Romeo21: ‘I’m looking for an older woman’s touch. I’d love to be your plaything!’

I’m losing the will to live. Really.