First Impressions.

I had sex with a 38-year-old woman today. The occasion had much to commend it. It stood out rather (stop sniggering, Jenkins) for two reasons. Firstly, I’ve never had sex with a woman that old before; and secondly, I found it quite impossible to divest myself (Jenkins! How many more times?) of the curious and continuous urge to regale the dear lady with that song from the old children’s TV series:

Andy Pandy’s coming to play. La, la-la, la-lah lah.

A trifle odd, don’t you think? Or, for the benefit of American readers, ‘what’s up with that?’ (Jenkins, get off the floor immediately! Your mind would make a suitable repository for black slimy things with pointy ears and bad breath.)

And of course, I made it all up – well, apart from one statement which happens to be true. The fact is, only the most desperate of 38-year-old women would favour me with so much as the time of day these days, let alone a position of prominence. I did so to give anybody who happens to read it a chance to consider their reaction.

Not that I’m suggesting they should, of course; that’s their choice. And if they do, I don’t want to know what they discover. I’d rather practice my present predilection for unanswered questions.