How to Handle a Woman.

The man coming out of the Tesco store on Sunday was carrying a little girl of around two in his left arm. I risked a wave, as I always do with young children. The child was regarding me with some interest, and after a couple of seconds favoured me with a return wave. And so I went for the jackpot: I smiled at her. Another two or three seconds elapsed while she evidently considered the matter, and then she beamed broadly and waved frantically back. Success; job done.

You’ve no idea how much of a lift that sort of thing gives me, even more than the sight of the large, luminous, and seductive eyes of the young woman in the pet shop. I considered asking her whether she had some Mediterranean in her ancestry, but resisted the urge on the grounds that it might appear creepy. At my age I feel I should be entitled to express such interest without fear of impropriety or worse, since I no longer offer the slightest threat to any woman young or old.

It’s just that the matter of women and their eyes is of such great import to me, and becoming more so as the years advance into dotage. But then I can’t be absolutely certain that my boyish charm has quite gone the way of the dodo yet, so maybe circumspection should remain the order of the day. (I think I’m joking here.)