Nietzsche at the Ritz

Back from Paris early. Good job I’d taken the sunglasses as I shed a tear or two into my leopardskin (faux)collar on the train home. My instincts were right, as usual. I wont go into it, as it’s so painful but suffice it to say that my silver fox had been on the prowl, as I suspected, and had come home with a tender morsel in his mouth. Her name is Yvette and she works as an intern at his magazine. It’s the Lewinsky effect. What man can resist? I knew the moment I was introduced to her in her cute little cheerleader outfit. I could see there was no doubt she had been tickling his dear face with her silly pom poms. I kept my dignity. I made my excuses and caught an early Eurostar home.

I cried until we were through the tunnel and back on home land. I don’t know whether it’s anything to do with those years abroad but my connection to home soil is particularly powerful, visceral even, these days. Perhaps it always was. Once after I had been away for two years, I fell on my knees and buried my tears in the first clover lawn I’d seen in all that time. Drama queen!

On the Eurostar as I quietly sobbed into my faux leopardskin, finding comfort in its soft and sensuous touch, my eye was drawn to a copy of the Daily Mail that someone had left on the seat when they alighted at Ashford. Now I am not a woman to regularly buy the Mail, though I have to admit that it is stuffed full of what my mother always referred to as ‘conk’ (gossip). In a section called Life and Style there was an article by novelist Howard Jacobson, a man who had already caught my eye this week as I gleefully read his Radio Times article called The Dawkins’ Delusion. This article was called The Allure of the Older Woman.

I can’t tell you how much I was cheered by HJ’s summary of older women as seductive, confident, experienced and knowing. Exactly. ‘Better to be chosen by a woman who has known many lovers than by a girl who has no-one to compare you to,’ he writes with complete assurance. Where can I meet this man? In the meantime I will make do with his latest novel, ‘The Act of Love’ and while on Amazon I’d better get a copy of Nietzsche so that, should the opportunity arise, I can spend an evening discussing him with Howard at the Ritz, something he so rightly assumes, you cannot do with a young girl, not at the necessary depth anyway.

By the time I had reached St Pancras I’d reconnected with my spirit and remembered how I love being an older woman. I don’t compete with the young, as quite frankly it’s no competition. I am Allie at the age that I am and that is enough. I like the fact that I am tuned into the poetry of life and I see and appreciate the patterns and rhythms of being alive. I’ve never been happier with who I am but I am shocked that a man that I have loved has been capable of treating me with what seems like a lack of respect. I will recover my composure in no time at all, helped as I have been by HJ’s words. I might not have that particular silver fox in my life any more but I made the decision and as I look around I see that it is I who have it all and knowing that I have it all is the secret of the allure of this particular older woman.

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