Horn Solo

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.