Legs Eleven

Madness continues at the Bingo. We have become a Caller. That's the man who stands reciting the numbers for the old dears to mark on their cards. It makes a change from selling the Bingo Books, which I also do. But that can get a bit boring. You just can't hustle, you see - not like the shop, where every customer was a prospect to be milked dry.

"What are you selling, son?" they often ask. "Hopes and dreams, madam, hopes and dreams," I reply, kindly. "Oh. How much are they?" they ask then, a bit confused.

I don't think they're yet ready for a smart-ass like me. But I try to be kind. Always. And it's great to be called "son" in late middle age. Everything's relative. Einstein wasn't wrong. I've got the Space, if you've got the Time, honey. How many dimensions do you like, big boy? Oh, I don't know - how many you got? And how's yer hole for blackness?

Calling the bingo numbers is ace. How else could you get 800 people hanging on your every word? It's not for the shy or wilting, though. Only utter extroverts should apply.

But our extroversion is all a facade, of course. Deep down we're very shy indeed. Too shy to go to Alistair and Dolly's party tonight, despite having several people beseeching me. Kindly. Sam says he might get a shag. I hope he does. He's a nice guy. Just looking for a bit love, like all of us.

Looking younger than one's age is a mixed blessing. People just don't realise that elderly men go to bed early, prefer TV to nightclubs, and often don't fancy anyone at all. That last one really throws em. They can't cope. Can't relate. They (fondly) imagine their own hormones are going to keep pumping at their present levels till someone hammers the coffin lid down over their final post-mortal erection. But it ain't so. All just candy-floss these days. Might as well be painted on a chocolate box. Them, not me.

It's a creepy feeling looking at someone and thinking, "I really should be fancying you rotten," when nothing at all is happening. Nothing. And I don't just mean the family department. Nothing at all. No adrenaline. No blood pressure. No zing.

My zing has zung. And to be honest, I don't miss it. That's why when you see a group of old gents at a bar, puffing their pipes and deciding what horse to back, they usually look so placid. Sexual desire is the antithesis of serenity. Well, that's all for today. Going to watch the telly.

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