113d6c9f4e8775793a75040c6c5d4a1bI don’t know what your personal goals are for going out to your local watering hole with your house-mate after a long day of tutoring, but I would rather have my bum meticulously shaved in a blizzard with a bare Minora blade by three drunk Sherpas at the top of Mount Everest after having fallen into a thorny bush than be tagged and chatted up by sticky old men while having an innocent drink with a dear friend. Even if one is French! Life is too short! Perhaps this prospect will change somewhat in another 50 years’ time. Perhaps by then I will find  aforementioned “business”-men as attractive as a young Sean Connery, but I’m hoping to have my own silver-haired fox by then. So, actually no thanks, not for me. Not ever.

These long-toothed panthers purred and paraded. Making comments about how young we apparently looked (no kidding!) and complementing our eyes (amateurs). The European’s very opening line was, “I am French!” which he announced a few seconds before telling us that he had no intention of bothering us and then proceeded to comfortably seat himself next to my friend, who’s beautifully youthful eyes screamed for help to myself from the other side of our invaded territory. Even the Mexican waiter didn’t push very hard to sell us those tequilas when we ordered two tall glasses of water.

Thankfully I earned my now obsolete thesaurus of dirty pick-up lines years ago at Uni when I was waitressing at an arty on-campus place. All the sexual innuendo (in some cases quite lacking in subtlety) soared past our ears like a symphony out of tune. I laughed hysterically while, I am sure, my friend was actually praying. Too bad our company was too determined to notice how they were the butt of absolutely every joke we made. Frenchie’s conversation steered to much kinder topics after I pointed out his wedding ring, which made him at least bearable.

Eventually, water downed and disdainful faces made, we skedaddled to the ladies before making our grace walk out the door. Our honour and territories in tact, though our innocence slightly scorched. Questions remain. What were they thinking? Do they ever have any success with their amorous pursuits? Can they read body language or understand English? It’s pitiful, and unflattering.

Dear old man/men. Take the money you wanted to invest in getting me soused and invest it in your grandchild’s university fund. Go home to your wife and your children. Drive home sober and plan adventurous holidays with your doting wife after retirement. Alternatively study topiary and re-do your garden or collect bonzai trees and take up a foreign language. An actual one. Collect French oaked red wine or join a gentleman’s club and discuss politics. Read a book! At least then , instead of writing this post about you, I can actually respect you. No offense Picasso!