Too much, too young...

Well what a day yesterday was.  Half of it spent talking about the bins of Oxfordshire, the other half spent visiting various loved ones in hospitals across Berkshire.  I clocked up the best part of a hundred miles and spent a few hours speaking in hushed tones while desperately trying to avoid looking at the woman in the bed opposite who had made the schoolgirl error of wearing a shortie nightdress and matching dressing gown which barely covered her dignity. Actually, I had the misfortune to spot her dignity a couple of times - the two plastered ankles gave her limited mobility, but when she went, boy she went. I think it should be law that all patients' night attire reaches at least to the knee.  As I said to the Mother who was with me yesterday afternoon, 'Dignity should be maintained at all times dear'.

So there was just one thing I needed when I limped back to Oxfordshire, and that was a cup of tea with Mrs S (she of the bijoux cottage which I had a serious hand in painting). She had been at a wedding the previous weekend and I was after a blow by blow description of all that went down.  After handing me a well needed mug of tea, she took a deep breath and described it all in detail.  The bride was beautiful (I know her, and knew she would look fabulous), the food fantastic and the venue perfect apparently, but it was her table which caused the most giggles.

Mrs S is a single lady, and in their wisdom, the bride's parents had put her on the 'young table'.  This meant that Mrs S was sandwiched between two young men who were on the wrong side of 30.  By this, I mean that they were less than 30, and therefore off limits.  I have always suggested to my single friends that any man they choose should be older than any tights they might own.  One has to have standards, and having a quick romp with a chap young enough to have never seen 1990 is just not on.  

I can't even start to imagine having a relationship with someone that young.  I'd have to spend the first two hours of our first date apologising for what he might come across as time went on.  Stretchy bits, saggy bits, baggy bits, no bits, bits which are definitely south of where they were originally put and bits which have worn out. I'm not saying that my body is falling fast, but I'd probably have to supply him with a hard hat too, just in case.

So back to Mrs S.  Apparently the two boys (just because you have a beard, it doesn't make you a man) were very flirty, and Mrs S was having a most pleasant time winding them up, knowing full well that at the end of the night she'd be going back to her room alone with a couple of custard creams, an Ovaltine and a new copy of Hello magazine.  

And then it got a tiny bit interesting.  

'They wanted to do the Eiffel Tower with me', she said.

Now I pride myself on being pretty up to date with kid-speak, but this was a new one on me.  'Mmmm', I said.  'Do you need your passport for that?'

Well apparently not...




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