This festive season left my vagina as dry and unseasoned as Gran’s turkey breast. In lieu of titillating new chronicles, I hope the reader might be satisfied with a cock of Christmas past. Apologies for the antiquity of the anecdote, although on second thought it couldn’t be more appropriate. Were Freud living he’d be sending me boxes of mini-muffins each December; I personify his theories like no other I know. Sex-obsessed? Could rival Hugh Hefner’s libido, notta problem. Penis envy? My heart weeps for a meaty flute to call my own. Electra complex? Ah. Here’s the big ’un. The desire to partake in coitus with Pa. Don’t look so dismayed, reader. I stress now that dear old Dad was never on the scene, and my interest is not literal. Many a girl enjoys a more mature fella. My second ever sexual encounter, I was thrilled to report to my classmates, was with the Silver Fox. I was thrilled because he had been long-coveted; the experience in itself was, sadly, rather less satisfying.

He was certainly a well-practised pair of hands. Eight out of ten for technique. Stamina, on the other hand, was a different matter: several minutes in I was relishing yet another novel position afforded to us by the powers of middleaged sexual experience. Climax, however, was snatched away from us in a loud ‘Crack!’; panicking, I swung round to find my Silver Fox writhing in an uncomfortably geriatric injury. His back, he explained ashamedly through pained gasps, “was not what it used to be”. I looked forward to some friendly pillow-talk. A veteran of youth, Silver Fox would have stories to tell and wisdom to impart. Not so. Foolishly, I had not counted on the utter dearth of mutual interests that accompanies a generational gap. A turn around the cabbage
patch is not my idea of fun. As I feigned a polite interest in garden trowels, I mourned the demise of my glamorous fantasy. My beloved Granddad had an enthusiasm for growing his own greens. The comparison was unwelcome.