s each year passes, my idealistic, romantic younger self fades ever further into the background. I can no longer project depth and a great sense of humour onto some random good-looking man, like pinning the tail on the donkey. Young men mostly make me feel like I should be either making them a packed lunch or ironing their school trousers, and harmless random crushes have vanished into the, but rather than leaning against a bar drinking a Martini and being wise, I’m wearing Primark pyjamas and eating cheese balls from Morrisons. Maybe it’s because I can see clearly now the oestrogen has gone. Or maybe it’s because all that’s on this side of the hill are men in gilets, Jeff Goldblum and… LARRY DAVID.
