Friday, 4 November 2011

A mature cheese or a fresh egg?

Last week, I had an epiphany. What is this new culture where beautiful women are obsessed with having a toy-boy? I used to believe entirely in ‘feeling young and footloose’ but news of Ashton Kutcher broke my heart and confirmed one fact to me: toy-boys suck ass. Ashton, a very handsome boy, marries a rather Goddess-like (if a little botoxed up) Demi Moore… and finds a younger ‘thing’ within a couple of years. Gah. Toyboys, I repeat, suck ass.  This was the conclusion I came to last week and I set about trying to find a man who would ooze maturity and just be so delicious, I’d be rendered speechless every time he came near…. like a good cheese or a beautiful wine. (on that note, I tried Camembert yesterday. Orgasmic to say the least….who needs men when you have cheese?)

Anyway, in a fortnight, I have found myself in three compromising and totally mysterious situations…all with older men. First, I was caught off guard by no other than the King of Older Men, Monsieur George Clooney. And, for the record, I wasn’t smooth and he is by far one of the most handsome men I have ever seen and I was unbelievably overwhelmed and wanted to jump on him and just let him have his wicked way with me there and then and and and



Seeing him reignited my determination to find this ‘perfect, charismatic older man’. Preferably A George Clooney, but I am prepared to settle for something a litttttle less fabulous.  Begrudgingly. I was definitely the most shameful member of the crowd at his premiere shouting ‘GEORGE! GEORGE!’, amongst the cream of Parisienne cinematographers and normal human beings. But it was George Clooney for Christ’s sake! My behaviour was totally excusable.  

One soiree avec mes amis, I found myself talking to a taxi driver enroute to my petite boudoir. I told him I loved Paris, the city of love. 

This comment OBVIOUSLY meant that Joel from Haiti wanted MY love. He was so persistent in getting my number, and I just couldn’t for the life of me give him a fake one. I know that apparently giving a fake number is a skill learnt at the age of 16, but after receiving more attention from my own dog than boys at that age, I have not developed any of those…’skills’. My conscience just plays such a massive part.  So instead, after about 8 minutes of rambling in which time he had turned off the engine and parked up at the side, I took his number. As I left the taxi fairly swiftly, he told me he’d wait for my call. Alas, I fear my romance with Joel from Haiti, aged about 45…. is not to be. 

I wasn’t going to suddenly start thinking that Paris was not the city of love after just that experience. I still had faith.  One must give cities a chance. After the next incident, I fear Paris needs a couple of chances. 

I was on the RER at a God forsaken hour catching an early morning flight. Sans make up with about 3 hours of sleep to my name and a puffy face that would compete with a hamster, I sat on the train reading my book totally minding my own business. I feel that however unladylike this may sound, it must be said to really emphasise the context and my mood at that time: I had seriously bad wind. 

And then this man appeared on the seat next to me and for the next 40 minutes, he sat on his iPhone talking to ‘Azhib’ and staring at my breasts. This was not at all subtle in that he had to turn his head to the left to stare at them. I was uncomfortable, but in Paris I have grown accustomed to random staring at the mammary glands. I feel like Nepal Buddhist tour guides prepared me for that: Parisian perverts, BRING IT ON. But, this man was a lot older than my own father and of North African descent and I thought that he’d just give up after a while. 

But, NO. He clearly wanted his early morning fix. Eurgh.

When his stop was coming up (Aulunay Sous Bois for future reference) he tried to get my attention and got a piece of paper and a pencil out of his bag and ‘romantically’ left me his number on the seat. 

I died. Mortified. I had to text my mother I was that shocked. I thought after ‘is this what it has come to?!’ Because, Paris being the city of love seems to be a myth right now. I came to the conclusion that day that an older man was definitely not worth it. 

Then, tonight happened. Nothing exciting, don’t get your self too excited. I was catching up on 90210 and Annie, this awkward character meets an older man who is just dreamy. I’m sat here now sipping on my brew whilst Paris dances the night away and I’m listening to the classical song from Love Actually. My conclusion of ‘no older men’ has just gone out the window, but so has my ‘no toy boy’ rule.  I feel that age should be limitless. I know what I love, and that’s charisma and humour, age is just a number. Of course, if George Clooney adored me, I’d be completely ok with that. Similarly, if the curly haired one from One Direction felt an instant connection with me, I’d be just as ok about that. I feel I must be more open-minded if I really want to find that Monsieur Correctamundo.

On the plus side, no pervs hassled me enroute back into Paris. So, all is not lost. Perhaps this really IS the city of love?! Or, maybe I was on the ‘lucky’ train. Anyway, demain I will open my eyes to the world of possibilities and embrace what lies ahead in true British style. And besides, who needs men when you have cheese, wine and fresh bread? 

I am Britist; I am fabulous; I have a great rack and I love my red lipstick: practically dynamite. Pass me the Camembert, get me a brew and I'm off to embrace the most important thing in my beauty sleep obviously. 

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