Recently my mind was much exercised by the question of whether to embark on an affair, whilst I could still walk without benefit of a Zimmer frame and climb the stairs as a biped, instead of on all fours. Mind you, judging from the number of programmes that have aired recently concerning the frolicking s of geriatrics, neither seems to be an impediment, more like a positive advantage. ‘Fancy swinging from the old Zimmer Frame, Harry?’ ‘Assume the stair position, Joan. Second from the top.’ See what I mean? In fact it surprises me that no one has yet thought to bring out a Kama Sutra aimed solely at the aged. A Hundred And One Things To Do With Your Oxygen Tank. A Stannah Made For Two. All Trussed Up – Hilarious Hernia Fun. Truss me, there’s a market there. Go on, take it to the Dragons’ Den.
Regardless, I was faced with the dilemma of whether or not to cheat on my husband, soul mate and father of my two sons. Actually, he’s not the father of my children, but he is definitely my soul mate. So, why you might wonder would I want to do the dirty on him? I don’t, in fact. But, good grief, every second person I meet seems to ‘be at it’ and I can’t help wondering if I’m missing out in some way. You see, I was always slow to catch on to the latest trend and it’s left me with a bit of a complex. I mean, I was still wearing loudly patterned bell-bottoms and tank tops when everyone else had graduated to skin-tight denim jeans and acres of cleavage. And, whisper it, my musical tastes haven’t moved on from Donny Osmond yet and he’s a grandfather!
Fact! I still want to be a member of the cool gang and if that means hanky-pankying behind my innocent husband’s back – tough! Right, morals despatched, there remains the issue of finding Mr Wrong. I waited in this morning to catch a glimpse of our postman, as tradition has it that postmen and milkmen invariably deliver more than letters and pintas. We don’t have a milkman and the postman turned out to be a post woman. ‘Don’t knock it, till you’ve bi’ed it,’ a friend of mine used to say, but she was the kind of person no one ever listened to. Not even her girlfriend and boyfriend.
‘Have an affair with your own husband,’ another friend suggested. ‘You know, put the spark back in your marriage, Ann Summers and stuff. Vibro rabbits.’
Naughty nurses and rabbit stew. Worth a try! I didn’t have a naughty nurse’s uniform, but I did have a pair of fishnets, which is vaguely in the same ball park. I unearthed them from beneath a mountain of M&S belly-warmers and pulled them on. No fish were harmed, but I caught a whale and, since he’s a member of Green Peace, this would only result in making my husband blubber. I ripped them off and turned my attention to part two – rabbit stew, which went also went for a burton when I discovered that nobody on the planet appears to stock Vibro rabbit. I complained to my friendly local butcher, who had the cheek to laugh. I wouldn’t mind, only you should see the state of his lamb shanks.
So here I am, no further along on my quest for infidelity, still wrestling with the idea of having an extra marital affair. In the meantime, though, my husband has surprised me by suggesting, with a twinkle in his eye, that we liven up our evenings with a game or two. Chess? Scrabble? Monogamy, anyone? Tis a sad affair.