Walking through the park this morning, I passed two road-workers, resting on either side of the small road that runs through the park. Having a little break from laying paving stones. "Sandwich?" one said to the other, quietly. Now it was only 11am, which seems a bit early for lunch. The only other interpretation I can come up with owes more to my hormonally-charged brain than reality.
What they say about women of my age appears to be true. I stare at half-naked workmen, out the corner of my eye, on the Rondpoint Schuman. I stare, sometimes actually stare, at men's biceps on the metro. Fortunately they probably think I'm just a motherly sort who is worried that they have come out without a cardi. You can get away with quite a lot if you are a mature and respectable-looking lady.
Presumably once the great crashing symphony of my hormones winds down in a few years this bit will end. (Does it? Let's ask Joan Collins...) But I'll bloody miss this movement of the symphony. I don't think I've ever enjoyed the horns quite so much. Perhaps this late surge is to give you something colourful to look back on when sitting on a commode in an old folks' home in Kent.