The usual disasters

Hello dear friends!

I apologise for the week’s silence. I was so busy on Twitter discussing things like trapped wind that I forgot that I am, first and foremost, a blogger.

There has been little by way of Big Romance this week but there have been two noteworthy scrapes:

1. I was on a boat and my ipod was on shuffle. The Three Tenors’ rendition of Nessun Dorma from the magical 1990 World Cup concert came on and, as ever, I started bawling. I always do. Nessun Dorma is a rousing enough piece of music on its own, never mind the lovely childhood memory that this particular recording inevitably brings.

Anyway, listening to it on the boat back from Uruguay where I’d been on a jolly, I had a modest little weep into my armpit.

Then a nice chap next to me asked if I was ok.

I should stress that the man in question was not attractive; he had visible nostril hair and a head not unlike a rugby ball. But, caught thus in my moment of raw emotion, I decided that perhaps he was The One. I nodded bravely at him and then of course ignored him until we got off the boat when I plucked up the courage to tap him on the shoulder. I’m not sure what I was planning to ask him; my Spanish is still pretty limited. But unfortunately we were exiting the boat and, as I tapped him, I tripped on the edge of the ferry and went sprawling forwards, bringing him down with me in a fairly deadly tackle.

There was a terrible silence. Thank Jehovah we were still on the boat end of the gangplank otherwise I could potentially have sent us plunging through the handrails into the brown and stinking waters of the River Plate in my desperate attempt to generate some sort of romance with this rugby-ball-head man. After we stood up I avoided his eye.

2. I have a crush on a 22 year old. He invited me to come over and ‘check out’ his new apartment last night – I assented and then spent half an hour deliberately choosing a youthful and contemporary outfit which gave the suggestion of coolness but reminded him that I was old enough to be his mother (sort of) and was thus a Desirable Older Woman to whom he may want to do Dirty Things.

The 22 year old is inscrutable so I have no idea if my feelings of lust are returned. I’m a little torn; part of me thinks that I should just leave him the hell alone because when I was eighteen he was ten and that to me just seems completely disgusting, but the other half thinks that perhaps I should try to organise some sort of date because he is really handsome and actually a lot more grown up than me?

God, I don’t know. Help.

At home the very thought of such behaviour would have brought me out in measles but all the females I’ve met here seem to be dabbling with younger men. (Although they are tending to do things like having sex on hostel balconies which is probably less amenable to me.) Advice please?

In other news, Spring is coming to Buenos Aires. Once more I realise that pretty much all of the clothes I brought out here were wildly inappropriate. What is acceptable in London – where most men know that you’ll punch them in the testicles if they so much as wolf-whisper at you – is not going to cut it here. I’m not the kind of fool who just gads off to foreign countries with low-cut tops and micro shorts but, having seen pictures of the stylish women of Buenos Aires, I thought that a few of my short-ish but certainly not slapper-ish skirts and dresses would work well out here. Not so much.


“YOU ARE A DIRTY WOMAN!!!” yelled a local from his car as I emerged from my apartment building yesterday. He honked on his horn and pulled out in front of a bus which missed him by seconds.

Sigh. Another season of sartorial doom yawns ahead.


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