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My kids know that I am daring to date again, otherwise I probably wouldn’t be writing this article.
Within minutes I got “likes”, “winks” and a couple of emails and I must admit to laughing out loud. The men who like me are, on average, 65, look rough as hell as they pose topless in front of their bathroom mirrors. Three months later we are inseparable, planning a week away together, he has met my kids, regularly sends me flowers, can handle the menopause word, doesn’t mind that I haven’t had a boob job or Botox, and may even meet my mother. We actually had two dates; on the second one we snogged, I fell into a whole fantasy about the joys of having a bf, until I got the silent treatment and was finally told by text that he didn’t want to commit. Chucked, as it was in my teenage day, which seems more relevant, given that I had been acting like a teenager. I manage to weedle out the 50-somethings, and even late 40-somethings, and go for a few more coffees. I had a picnic in a park until sunset with one guy, went to a gallery with another, talked about bird watching with one and meteorology with another. ” the mental health nurse asked me, without any sense of irony.