Men are attracted to women for all sorts of reasons besides youth and beauty, of course. One of the two things that impressed Big Daddy about me when we met, all those millions of years ago, was my uncanny ability to get upgrades. I’m afraid that particular talent of mine didn’t last very long (disappearing completely when we had kids). I was totally taken aback, therefore, when I arrived at the BA check-in counter at Heathrow last week, on a flight to Denver, and got told by the man-boy at the counter he was going to bump me up to first.
Was it that invisible sign I have tattooed across my forehead saying, “I do not under any circumstances want a baby” that did it? Was it the new ponytail? Was it the new drainpipes (that nobody over the age of 18 is supposed to wear, ha ha!)? Who knows, but when I clocked him and his friend giggling to each other as I walked up to the departure gate, it suddenly made me realise that I’m not middle-aged at all — I’m just a late developer. Darryl, his name was. Nice boy. And cute, too, which just goes to prove that if I did, for some reason, find myself single again, I’d be absolutely fine, thank you very much, Big Daddy.
And then I got on the plane. The little s*** had put me right in the back, by the lavatories, in a middle seat, next to a screaming child. Please, God, oh please, give Darryl chronic anal seepage (the kind you get from eating too many low-carb sweeties) for as long as he lives. And do not, God, under any circumstances, let Big Daddy get run over by a bus. Thank you.