hollymath: (Default)
Just caught sight of myself in the mirror and thought, as always lately, damn I'm scruffy because my hair is in that horrible sticks-out-everywhere stage of growing out...

...and then I scratched my head, and something about the way I looked as I was doing this made me think no I'm not, I'm Columbo!

Nearly all of my recent visits to Brighouse have featured watching an episode or two with [personal profile] miss_s_b, and this had been so much fun -- I hadn't seen Columbo since my dad watched it when I was young enough to think it was excruciatingly boring, but now I get it and it brings all kinds of joy, especially watching it with Jennie -- but I never expected it'd be good for my self-image too!

You couldn't even say that he doesn't care about his appearance, because he does -- he knows people will underestimate him if he dresses like that and has a slouchy posture and drives a terrible car, and seems to love using this to his advantage -- but you also get the impression that this is just him being himself, he'd do the same even if it did him no good. Truly an inspiration.
hollymath: (Default)
My hands are too sweaty for my phone to register the movements of my fingers.

Usually when this happens I rub my phone or my hands on my shirt to dry things off sufficiently to recover usefulness, but this time my shirt is drenched in sweat and so that didn't work either!

Andrew read me out a tweet a while ago that said something like "My friend asked me if he could charge his cigarette and I said no because I was charging my book. The future is weird." The inability to answer my phone when I'm sweaty seems a similar kind of thing, a problem we couldn't explain to any previous generation of human history.

Elyse

Sep. 26th, 2014 02:08 pm
hollymath: (Default)

I'm well pleased with myself: today I managed a bike ride I used to do all the time (to Chorlton, mostly along the Fallowfield Loop) more easily than I remember that being, even though it's been years since I did it and I haven't been exercising that much in the past...year, at least.

Of course, part of this is because I have a better bike than I did then (and indeed I was taking it to Stuart's so he could tune it up and now it's better yet) but it's just possible that I'm not as horrendously unfit as I thought. Which is a nice feeling.‎

Edit: Yeah, it's definitely the bike at least as much as me. It was even easier to get back home than it had been to get there. So I can't take all the credit!

Still I cycled something like nine miles today, and (between not having a bike and it being broken and then just being too mental) I imagine I haven't cycled nine miles altogether in the last three or four years. I feel awfully accopmlished.

hm...

Sep. 4th, 2014 11:04 pm
hollymath: (Default)
Pleased that I managed to feel content and relaxed, spending an evening in by myself (Andrew went to sleep as soon as he finished his first day back at work), rather than lonely and miserable as I'd expect.

I've been worrying the past month or so that that I'm using people/going places as an unhealthy avoidant distraction. Admittedly I'm still avoiding a lot of things I should be doing, but it feels like more of an achievement to do so by reading and savoring the silence than by wittering at unsuspecting chums. It takes a lot for me to feel satisfied with my own company.
hollymath: (Default)
Well if I'm going to have insomnia, at least I've got a lovely thunderstorm to entertain me.

A friend from Washington (the state) moved to Ohio a little while ago, and started saying things like "omg, Midwestern thunderstorms!" on facebook. Only then did I appreciate how lucky I was to grow up with such weather.

And this is a particularly good one, too, the kind that makes me wish I had company to share it with, someone whose eyes I could catch and smile in mutual recognition of the brightest or loudest bits. Thunderstorms can be seriously destructive and scary but they remind those of us lucky enough to have them to be grateful of sturdy walls around us, and for the company of people to mutter to about our mutual experience.

I saw the first flash of lightning so long before any other signs of weather that I had time to convince myself I'd imagined it before there was another one. After a good long time of increasingly-frequent flashes, a few minutes apart or so, I started to hear thunder in the distance. No rain, so I could savor the gentle, rolling thunder along with the lightning. Tons of lightning, a proper light show. Gradually louder, and some of the peals go on and on, but it's rumbling rather than cracking and there's still no rain so I don't think the storm can be very close. Just once the thunder is so intimidatingly violent and loud overhead that I don't blame anyone who believes in a thunder god. Then finally there is rain, in a short intense burst of white noise so different from the Manchester rain, which I always say sounds like someone throwing gravel at the windows. Now the thunder seems to be quieter again, receding; we must just be catching the edge of the storm here. The lightning is still filling the world with light every few seconds, eerie in its relative silence -- this is not one of the storms where you can count "one Mississippi..." to see how far away it is -- but the sky is brightening too as we get on. towards dawn. A couple of hours now I've been watching and listening to this storm, and (along with one of my favorite radio stations, which plays ambient/electronica music over Apollo-era astronaut and mission-control chatter) it's held my attention better than any movie of similar length.

Now I think it's gone. I find myself holding my breath, listening for more thunder.

Ah, there it is. Not done yet.
hollymath: (Default)
‎Dear bank:
"ISAs are now even NISA" is such a shit slogan that I can't help but hear it in Ollie Reeder's voice.

And even he would have been ignored or scowled at for such a thing.‎
hollymath: (Default)
Man, I haven't worn this dress since last summer, but I'm sure it wasn't this short then!
hollymath: (Default)
I took the post-late-night-mattress-adventure tea cups into the kitchen, surprised to see how crowded the countertop next to the sink was with similar of their kind.

I just did the dishes first thing this morning, and now most of the mugs are dirty again.

I had to smile when I saw them. It's so nice to have company.
hollymath: (Default)
The shower is leaking, one of our bins has gone missing, the washing machine is making a worrying noise...it's like this flat is trying to drive us away.

x

Mar. 15th, 2014 12:14 am
hollymath: (Default)
My new phone is so affectionate.

Its typing suggestions are much more comprehensive than my old phone's, which I think was old enough to pre-date autocorrect as the necessity it now seems to be.

So whereas before a single character wouldn't cause any attempt to anticipate what I wanted next, now if I end a text message with an "x", it suggests "xx", "xxx" and "xoxo". And even if need angle-brackets for HTML, the phone's only suggestion when I type "<" is "3".
hollymath: (Default)
I keep thinking I'll take a picture, play Bejeweled until my eyes hurt enough that I'll fall asleep (this is the only game I have on my phone, and this is the only reason I have it), listen to music on a walk, read Facebook on the bus, play an audiobook when I can't read, look up a train time, get a phone number I could really use while I'm standing on a train platform, listen to Sherlock Holmes radio plays to keep my insomnia from waking up Andrew, play 6music without getting out of bed, answer that kind of idly-asked question that no one in restaurants or pubs ever lets lie any more thanks to Google and Wikipedia.

But then I can't. I can't do any of those things, because my phone isn't really a phone. It's enhancing all these areas of my life. Or at least, I think it is.

Now of course I could listen to music on mp3 players (and I have found the shitty cheap mp3 player that mostly I only use on planes, because my phone battery won't last that long and I will want it for other things when I'm on the ground). And I could have an actual separate camera (though I haven't since I got my first smartphone, because I don't care about the quality of the pictures so much as being able to take them at times when I haven't planned my life well enough to have the camera with me). I can just leave the idle curiosity alone. I don't need to resolve all questions about the nearest train station to Llangollen or what it is people are going to see at the MEN (or even what the MEN's called now, because we know it's not that but Andrew's still working on not calling it the Ninex so we're not best-placed to answer this question).

Nearly everything smartphones do is not as necessary as Apple and Google and Samsung and whoever else want us to think they are. Almost everything can be done later, slower, differently, or you won't miss it if it isn't done at all.

Or it's actually good for you not to do it.

The tag I use when I'm talking about being depressed or sad has for years been called "turn the wireless up," thanks to reading Alan Moore misquoting Victoria Wood: "In my day, we'd just turn the wireless up and get on with it." (It's an attitude to depression that I'm very familiar with, and even by using it I'm allowing myself to talk about it without having a tag appear in huge letters on the side of my blog saying "depressed, depressive and depressing" (which is what any more direct label would feel like to me.) The outside world, via radio or smartphone, is a distraction from interior anguish.

The meditation class I took earlier this year didn't lead to me practicing meditation on my own, but it did make me think a lot about mindfulness (as I say in the linked entry). I'm still thinking of it in the terms that I was told at the very beginning of the class:

1) Awareness
2) of the present moment
3) non-judgmentally

At the time, I was thinking a lot about judgmentalness, but when I think about phones I'm thinking about of the present moment. Sending my mind away from my body is good and necessary sometimes (how else would I remember anything, or talk to people who aren't where I am? or write, for that matter) but it can be done too much. It can, now, be done all the time. And for an illustration of why that's a bad thing, here's Louis CK.



(First of all, if you don't know that bit he's talking about in "Jungleland," take ten minutes of your life to listen to it. Don't skip to the end, like all those youtube commenters who are just there because of Louis CK. Let the song build up.)

"You need to build an ability to just be yourself and not be doing something," he says. "That's what the phones are taking away, is the ability to just sit there. That's being a person. Because, underneath everything in your life there's that...empty, forever-empty. You know what I'm talking about? That knowledge that it's all for nothing and you're alone. It's down there. And sometimes when things clear away, you start going 'oh no, here it comes, that I'm alone!' Like it starts to visit on you, you know, just this sadness. Life is tremendously sad."

He goes on to talk about experiencing a little moment of ephemeral sadness (at a bit this song, and that video up there is totally worth watching for Conan O'Brien's amazing impression of Springsteen's guttural howls at the end of "Jungleland"), starting to reach for his phone, and thinking "You know what? Don't. Just be sad. Stand in the way of it and let it hit you like a truck." He pulls over and cries, "and it was beautiful. Sadness is poetic. You're lucky to live sad moments. And then I had happy feelings because of it. Because when you let yourself feel sad, your body has, like, antibodies, it has happiness that comes rushing in to meet the sadness. So I was grateful to feel sad, and then I met it with true, profound happiness. It was such a trip."

And it is. Even if it takes me like half an hour to write a text message now.
hollymath: (Default)
I wrote this on Facebook in response to someone sharing humorous pictures of anguished-looking people accompanying tweets of people complaining about things.

It's nothing new or spectacular in itself, but because I'm kind of grumpy today and because I had a few minutes waiting for someone, I wrote about why I hate "First World Problems." Here's what I said:

I don't take any pleasure from things like #firstworldproblems or White Whine any more (if I ever did; I hate unhappiness and if I read about someone's and add the feeling that I'm unhappy that the thing they're unhappy about is somehow unworthy of their reaction, that's just unhappiness squared).

One problem I have with it as a meme is I've seen so many people -- mostly women -- use this as an excuse to minimize their own problems, to apologize or even denigrate themselves for caring about the things they care about. I remember one who was berating herself for...something like being sad that one of her kids was sick, and called it a first world problem, which is just sad. This is an issue familiar to parent/child dynamics as long as there have been parents and children!

So I think it's a shame not only that we look for excuses not to be bothered about the things that bother us, thereby encouraging guilt and shame, but also that we imagine we white/first world people are the only ones who ever get to have problems with technology, food, the weather, etc.

What crystallized this latter point for me was reading something Teju Cole said:
I don't like this expression "First World problems." It is false and it is condescending. Yes, Nigerians struggle with floods or infant mortality. But these same Nigerians also deal with mundane and seemingly luxurious hassles. Connectivity issues on your BlackBerry, cost of car repair, how to sync your iPad, what brand of noodles to buy: Third World problems. All the silly stuff of life doesn't disappear just because you're black and live in a poorer country. People in the richer nations need a more robust sense of the lives being lived in the darker nations. Here's a First World problem: the inability to see that others are as fully complex and as keen on technology and pleasure as you are.
I'm not saying the people making some of these tweets are great examples of humanity. Many suffer from a deplorable lack of empathy or patience or perspective. But I don't think that state of affairs is going to be improved at all by us anonymizing and laughing at them, while simultaneously having no apparent idea ourselves of how the first world differs -- or doesn't! -- from the rest of the world.

Hollie

Sep. 4th, 2013 06:44 pm
hollymath: (Default)
I can understand belief in gods, the subjectivity of attraction, the apppeal of stuff I don't like. I understand the influence the yogh has had on English orthography and I understand why atonal music makes people feel unsettled. I even understood once, for a whole afternoon, Cantor's Diagonal Proof.

But I cannot understand how often e-mails from me, with my name in the "from" field and my name at the bottom of the e-mail (and, in many cases, my name in the e-mail address itself) elicit replies addressed to "Hollie." Once or twice I could forgive. Even from someone who's known me for years -- because that person regularly called Jennie "Jenny" too. But this is happening a lot. From different people. Who often get it right at first or in between instances of wrongness, so it's not as if they're hopeless causes.

I can't even tell if I really hate the -ie spelling of my name for itself (but I think I do, ugh) or if I just hate the lack of attention it represents.

Bed

Dec. 31st, 2012 01:34 am
hollymath: (down)
Curling up in another Holly's bed last night, I mused on how recent events had taught me that other beds seem to be much better than the shitty buy-to-let furnished-flat one I usually have to sleep in. Back in my own bed now -- I can tell from the pain in my hips -- the same thought recurs.

I'd resolve "to sleep in more different other people's beds" but it'd give you all the wrong impression.

(Anyway, Andrew says we're buying a house in a few months which would, it must be said, fix this particular problem, even as it creates rather more.)
hollymath: (calculus)
Sometimes I’ll hear or see someone talk about or do something that I’ve missed out on doing. It can be anything ranging from getting a degree to having a honeymoon to using a Young Person’s Railcard.

Having missed out on all these things -- sometimes irrevocably, sometimes not, but missing out all the same -- makes me feel very young in some ways. Very... undeveloped, maybe. Unfinished, anyway.

Yet most of my friends are older than me, some of them significantly so: it’s stopped being remarkable long ago that I have friends and crushes in their 40s (though the delight of having a boyfriend in his 40s hasn’t worn off and won’t until he stops grinning when he thinks about how he was 17 when I was born).

When I wonder (out loud anyway) about how they put up with me and my blatant immaturity. My amor et hilaritas fail more easily around people five or ten or fifteen years younger than me than any other single indicator I can think of (except maybe shopping). The gulf between me and the generation raised on the internet seems so much huger than that between me and the age-bracket or two above me.
hollymath: (i love)
All week long I pined for money, days off, and health good enough to enjoy them.

Now I’ve got all that and I just want to stay in my jammies.

Except part of me doesn’t really. It’s easier to think about getting up and out when the sun’s out, and it has been all week. On Monday [livejournal.com profile] saintmaryuk said on twitter that Spring was here, which I think might be a bit hasty but I wanted it to be true all the same. First of March, first we’d seen of the sun in a while... yeah I should know better, but I can’t help my optimism.

After months where the fun stuff only started when the lights went down -- whether that’s an orchestra tuning up or a vampire staring at you hungrily -- I’m chomping at the bit for days when I can walk in the sunshine holding hands with a lovely man, wearing a skirt without wishing I had thermal underwear beneath it, painting my toenails in the hopes that someone will actually see them, and other such gleefully hedonistic fantasies.

Nowties

Dec. 3rd, 2009 05:42 pm
hollymath: (sir)
There seems to have been some kind of Internet memo I missed (thank god; I have after all been trying to spend less time in front of the computer, especially after realizing how much more time I had that week I deleted all my Google Reader feeds... of course some of them are back now, but a) not as many and b) I’m more cavalier about ignoring some stuff that turns up there).

Anyway, it seems in the last couple of days my little corner of the internet has been trying to send me a message, and that message is that this decade just finishing is going to be called The Noughties.

I do not approve.

i first saw it in, oddly enough, my Google Reader because Andrew shares things from a blog called The Noughties Were Shit, which is the usage of this word I am most likely to forgive because a) it talks about the decade in the past tense already, which I find inexplicably comforting and endearing and b) as the title suggests, it’s cynical and vitriolic about pretty much everything under discussion. (I do rather wish this included the flaccid nomenclature as well, which is delightfully meta -- calling the noughties the noughties is shit! -- but find no mention of this).

And that was fine, because it was a one-off thing. But later that same day I saw it somewhere else on another blog, and then on a horrible MTV recap-of-the-decade type show (don’t look at me, I didn’t have the remote... I don’t even have the TV). The latter especially strengthened my suspicions that, as the first decade of the twenty-first century draws to a close*, the weight of commercialized tackiness will force people into creating not just the usual year-end retrospectives but bigger decade-end retrospectives.

I’m sure we just did this, but 1999 is longer ago than I thought and the world has moved on to bigger and better problems. Like, while those retrospectives were clearly Of The 90s, we’re not sure what it is we’re talking about here.

And admittedly after a short burst of ridiculous suggestions about this time ten years ago (the Aughties? the Naughties? the Zeros?), it seems everybody gave up on this because we had better things to worry about. Then Dubya stole his first election and this sort of thing quickly paled in comparison.

But now he’s gone, finally, and there are music videos to be ranked, people. And films and music and comics and and and... The potential for commercial exploitation is the only thing that seems sufficient to spurn anyone on to choosing an epithet for this quickly-ending decade, I get that. I do just wish they’d chosen something better than the Noughties, you know?

In my more grumpy moods, I prefer Nowties. (Nowt being, for those who don’t know, northern-English for “nothing.”)

And hereby I conclude my application for Youngest Curmudgeon Ever. I know I’m only 27 (but only for a couple more weeks!) but...

...I can’t help seeing this as the decade where I learned of the joys of ethernet and the internet started to steal my soul. Where I began to feel out of place for first not having a mobile phone, and since I got one in 2004 for not having one that gives me directions, orders my takeaways, lets me play games, takes pictures, plays music, and pretty much ensures (with Morrissettean irony) that I never have to interact with another human being ever again). This is the decade nostalgia reinvented itself as the toys from my childhood started making a comeback and I realized with horror that this is because people my age are now having kids. Though why that means they’d want to buy them Strawberry Shortcake dolls I don’t know, but then maybe I’m biased; I was always much more Lego than Strawberry Shortcake. This is the decade of fanfic and “reality shows” and voting people on or off the TV, the notion that people should get to participate in all their entertainment somehow dumbing us all down rather than lifting us up above the level of indolently passive consumption as it sounds like it might have. It’s the decade of blogs and vlogs and moblogs and comments, endless comments. Post anything on the internet and there’ll be someone along in a minute to tell you it’s all the fault of Muslim extremists or to try to sell you something to enlarge your penis. It’s the decade of spam, of information being if not free then extremely cheap and extremely widespread, edging towards both free-as-in-speech and free-as-in-beer. And thus we find that talk is cheap and maybe that you get what you pay for, too. Bruce Springsteen’s song with the chorus that goes “Fifty-seven channels and nothing on” must sound positively quaint by now; now we’ve got hundreds of channels and nothing on. That’s progress. A bunch of them are in HD now and everything. I can’t blame Charlie Brooker for wanting to go on a culture diet. Why do you think I have no TV? And of course that only means that no I haven’t seen Lost or Life on Mars or Heroes or Firefly or The Wire or Dollhouse or whatever the hell it is I’m supposed to be watching now. And you know what? I don’t mind. Of course I don’t mind people who do care about those things either (the only reason I can rattle off these names is that I’ve heard about them from people I care about), but goddam it, I’ve had enough.



* Unless you are a pedant like me, one of those annoying bastards seething as everyone else welcomed the dawn of the new millennium around the time they were worrying about the Y2K bug because we knew the new millennium wouldn’t start until the next year... and that Y2K didn’t sound like anything to worry about. And hey, we were right about Y2K too, weren’t we? Well then.

Stew

Nov. 19th, 2009 08:12 am
hollymath: (postmark)
I like to cook a lot more than I like to eat. But usually I’m only cooking for myself, and leaving Andrew to fend for himself.

We’re like Jack Sprat and his wife; there’s practically nothing we both eat, and especially when I was working, we’d never eat at the same times of day anyway.

Last night, though, I felt like cooking even though I was too sick and headachey to be interested in eating. Plus I got, in my veg box (lovely magic veg box! i still haven’t gotten over the novelty of this food-turning-up-on-my-doorstep thing) one of the very few vegetables that Andrew will eat but I really don’t like. But he’ll only eat it in stew, where it tastes of gravy anyway.

So yesterday I bought some lamb mince -- I can’t even remember the last time I cooked with meat1 and since it was frozen and I didn’t have to touch it, just dump it out of the bag, it was fine with me -- and chopped up an onion and the swede (that’s the one I’m not keen on) and a few carrots and potatoes and it was just starting to bubble away on the stove when Andrew got in from work.

Domestic goddess, that’s me.

I ladled some of the stew into a bowl and brought it to him, then went to lie down and nurse my headache. From time to time, though, I heard the clinking of the spoon on the bowl as he ate, and I thought there are few things that make me as happy as that sound, evidence that someone is getting something out of my effort, my skill and work is giving nourishment to another person.

(And one who’s not too picky about what it tastes like, so there’s no pressure there!)

I drifted off to sleep quite happily then.
hollymath: (window)
I bought a black tank top in Target once. I wore it for pajamas at first, but it eventually ended up in a garbage can in the ladies’ toilets of a nice Italian restaurant just off Oxford Street in London.

A few weeks ago I saw a guy whose job led him lug some new furniture to a hospital ward in Manchester taking a break with a cup of tea he was drinking out of a mug advertising a brand of livestock feed headquartered in Iowa. He probably ddin’t notice -- people often don’t notice these things -- but I did, if only because it was me who brought that cup and a few others there, where I work, because we’re always short of coffee mugs.

My mom had given me a few old castoffs from her kitchen cupboard when I was home for Christmas. The livestock feed mugs were among the unloved and unmissed because it’s been years since my dad had that job, a travelling salesman for this feed company. The job too was unloved and unmissed; my dad’s shy even by taciturn Midwestern farmers’ standards and he did not suit this kind of work, though he did whatever work was going in the two years or so after he found himself part of a surprise round of layoffs at the job he’d done twenty years and before he could settle down into a proper job that would pay enough to support his wife and little kids.

The coffee mugs will have probably stayed in the regular rotation for a while before being consigned to this life languishing in a dark cupboard until my mom hit upon the plan of fobbing them off on me, so they wouldn’t be taking up space any more.

The tank top has a little story like that too, leading up to its unusual demise that has stuck with me even though it’s been a couple of years since its strap broke and I pulled it out from under the other shirt I’d been wearing over it and wore on its own the rest of that day. It has its secret life, as indeed do all the other objects in these stories: the couches that guy helped carry in to the ward where I work, before he had his tea: as far as I’m concerned they began life with excited talk of ordering them from a catalog, the ward manager excited about improving the ward environment beyond the capabilities of the old stained uncomfortable couches. But if you asked someone who worked in a furniture factory or drove a moving van, you’d get quite a different story about identical objects.

Packing stuff up for the move gave me a million little encounters with the secret life of objects. There’s the silky nightgown and robe I was given as a bridal shower present, eliciting mock-scandalized exclamations from my mom and her friends and elderly great-aunts as it was by far the most salacious gift I was given as the competition was things like a recipe book, a photo album and for some reason lots of potholders. But Andrew’s very sensitive to the feel of certain fabrics and he can’t even bear to hear the folds of this sort of thing swish together as I move, so I could never wear it around him. And as was the way in the old flat the front of the drawer it was in completely fell off and so it joined the piles of things on the bedroom floor; sometimes I’d fling it aside as I was looking for something else, but I almost always felt a bit sad to see it there, meant to be fun and nice but proving so useless. Oh well; it was bought by someone who’d clearly asked my mom what size I was because it was two sizes too big anyway. It seemed a shame to throw it away but even though it’s only sexy by old-lady standards it did seem quite an intimate thing and not the sort of thing to be given to charity shops even if it hasn’t really been worn. I think it was thrown away or just left behind when we moved; I’ve not seen it since anyway.

And so many things like that: a locket given to me by a now-ex girlfriend, which I hated to see again. There’s a message inside it, which I didn’t have to open to read becasue I remember it exactly, and i wonder if she believed it even when she had it engraved there or if it was always just part of the game we were playing. I honestly don’t remember what I did with that; again it seems unbearable to throw away anything so personal but yet what would I do with it now? The message was well-intentioned but quickly proved wrong so it makes me sad to think of it, much less wear it. But it makes me sad to think of throwing it away too.

Perhaps I am silly to bestow such importance, such weight, on things that are, well, just things aren’t they? Sometimes I long for a spartan existence in a minimalist house. But never for more than a few seconds at a time. I love loving objects; as with any love there is the price to pay for my attachment but it’s one I’ll happily pay to live in a world where toasters can be brave and the can o’ beans knows a lot more than it’s letting on.
hollymath: (Default)
Down the pub yesterday Andrew was explaining that I like Yorkshire accents only because of "middle-aged men."

I might have unwititngly helped his case just then by mentioning how enamored I am of Simon Armitage (as earlier noted on this here LiveJournal). His poems aren't bad and he sometimes says interesting things on the radio but really I'm just in love with his accent.

I did my best to point out that it's not just the men from Yorkshire whose accents I like, attempting to convince my friends that it's not just that I think they're sexy or something.

"Are you saying middle-aged men can't be sexy?" the artist formerly known on LJ as [livejournal.com profile] gentleman_lech asked.

I laughed and was about to protest to the contrary but Andrew beat me to it, pointing out that everybody I fancy is at least ten years older than me (which wouldn't be enough to make them middle-aged anyway and he's wrong anyway as the one that really stands out in that list is only seven years older than me). And he even forgot about one or two, but they'd have only reinforced his point.

So, middle-aged men of the world, you needn't worry that I won't find you sexy. Even if you're not from Yorkshire.

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