The Young Ones

The problem with being over 30 is that you are less naive, infinitely more cynical, and burdened down with quarter of a century's worth of baggage. Ditto the supposedly eligible singletons you are likely to meet. Everyone has their issues, is tainted by the past, and this somehow makes dating in your 30s that much more complicated.

So it was something of a novelty to be courted by a younger man. I say "courted"; in reality it was as about as charming and romantic as being poked. Which I was. On Facebook.

"You do realise I'm biologically capable of being your mother?" I asked him, incredulous, but at the same time thrilled and flattered by the attentions of a 22 year old. Less thrilled though, at the dawning realisation that - dammit - I am now old enough to have a toyboy.

"Oh yes, I noticed you were born in the late '70s," he said (actually, it was 1976, but I was quite taken by his unpolished charm).

And then, with careful casualness: " Age is just a number." Erm, yes, age is just a number, when that number is as low as twenty-bloody-two.

We met one very rainy Sunday evening in West Hampstead. My umbrella broke in the gale force winds and he threw it away, and we swept down the sodden streets until we found a bar, into which we collapsed, wet and giggling, and we drank whisky and flirted all evening. It was brilliantly refreshing: no hype, no expectations, no attempts to impress, no self-justification. Just the wide-eyed, breezy excitement of a recently-graduated teenager who is loving his first proper job, making the most of his recent move to London, and is loving life, rather than feeling disillusioned by it. Or maybe that's just his daily dose of pot.

After a fun couple of hours spent discussing weight training and me scolding him over his diet (fried chicken? 6 enormous meals a day? O' to have the metabolism of a 22 year old man), we headed to the tube station. I was due to be meeting F, who was in London for the weekend and staying at my flat. F (bless her) was characteristically late, but it didn't matter; we spent a productive 15 minutes waiting for her as we snogged madly in the pouring rain, knocking the public telephone receivers off the wall and generally creating a mild wave of havoc as we shamelessly groped each other in full view of the residents of West Hampstead.

I will never, ever forget the look of utter confusion, bemusement and bewilderment on F's face as she walked through the ticket barrier to meet this sight. I still giggle spontaneously thinking of that moment.

So what happened next? I don't kiss and tell. But let's just say that virtual poking can get a whole lot more real.