My old man

It’s that time of year again, R says, clearing his throat hesitantly. Even in my marble-free zone I register what he’s talking about. I also know why he still hesitates to come out with it. Twenty odd years after divorcing his first wife, there’s a damaged part of him that expects me, like her, to throw a wobbly and send him to Coventry for a month every time he gets an invitation to have some fun.
It’s the reunion, he says, transported before my eyes to a callow schoolboy wearing Chelsea boots and an over-eager quiff.
One of the many reasons I love my husband is his devotion to having fun with his extremely jolly old mates. We all know that women are capable of forging new friendships right up to and including the geriatric ward. And women will share their secrets, especially anything to do with men, sex and babies, with anyone remotely interested.
But it’s a rare man who’s going to confide to another man that his wife’s ‘late’ so that they can suck their teeth like a couple of Les Dawson characters. And I doubt a man, however reconstructed, would summon everyone to gather round so he can snap open his briefcase like a dodgy geezer selling sepia prints of naked ladies and unfurl a sheaf of ultrasound images.
Fathering a child is always public domain. This applies with bells on with an older dad. A younger man can get away with scratching his head, pretending it’s nothing to do with him, or even strutting about like the cock of the walk. An older man, while forgiven for doing all those, will also be scrutinised with a mixture of amusement and fascination.
Despite being warned that if they want to conceive older men should stop drinking, smoking, having a life or wearing tight pants, nature designed testicles like the porridge pot that never stopped boiling presumably with the intention of men continuing to reproduce until they dropped. Otherwise why wouldn’t Nature have invented the male menopause? Perhaps older fathers were, are, still needed to pass on a different quality of DNA, genes full of genial wit, urges to wear Argyll socks and listen to Status Quo, and the ability to fashion spiral staircases out of box hedges. Or were they designed to fill the reproduction gap if younger warriors were all killed in battle or impaled on a woolly mammoth?
At any rate it may be why nature designed child-bearing women to look less like Ann Widdecombe and more like Pamela Anderson. Their enhanced contours and tumbling blonde hair are all the easier spotted by rheumy eyes and are guaranteed to ensnare all that wisdom, genial wit and topiary skills.
Perhaps it’s the lioness in me, but fatherhood at whatever age is sexy as. Once the novelty has worn off the announcement of a pregnancy and the mother is blooming away like a one woman garden centre, am I the only one who sees the old man grinning sheepishly in the corner transformed into a virile, sexy beast the pertness of whose bum deserves re-assessment? Who can give me a sexier sight than a tiny baby cradled in the crook of a great big muscly arm?
His sheepish grin might eventually fade, to be replaced (in a first-time father) by slightly smug expertise in fundus heights and prostaglandins (men are so much more comfortable with the technicalities). The thought it was all over but here we go again father will raise his eyes to heaven in mock resignation as he fixes up the old cot and rattles the keys to the new people carrier that has ousted his bachelor-boy MG BGT.
As for the older father. Well, once any misgivings about having a child at his age are both long gone and futile he will quietly put away his application for a three-year mature student’s course in nude photography or the planned sabbatical spent measuring vanilla pods in Madagascar. While the older mother is busy shaking the spiders out of her old breast pump, he will be tentatively dusting off the sleek metallic Concept 2 PM3 loitering in the garage. And before you ask, it’s a rowing machine, not some kind of sex aid designed to revive flagging libidos – as if! I mean, show me the geek who invents a gadget to quash the male libido, and I’ll show you thousands of grateful women.
But once the baby is born it’s not so much blossoming for the mother as dead-heading. ThoThose grisly shiny photos taken in the delivery room? It gets worse. Because back in the nest you don’t have the excuse of bad lighting and a hospital gown. I could go on about the milk-encrusted nighties, the bouquets left wilting in the porch, the lack of five seconds to find a matching sock or go to the loo, let alone wield a hairbrush or unchain yourself from the dishwasher where you’ve been hunched for three days tending to all those well-wishers.
So while you’re staggering about like John Wayne in your husband’s tracksuit big daddy will be wearing what he’s always worn, for good or ill. He’ll be leaping about like a rutting stag getting cups of tea/flutes of champagne for the admiring visitors whilst changing tiny nappies.
And why do his outward signs of exhaustion go no further than a rather attractive smattering of silver-tipped stubble? Because he’s a stud, that’s why. Yup, even if he’s 72. Oh, and because his brief, cataclysmic contribution to this precious new life wasn’t followed by nine months of constipation and varicose veins with the bonus of a two-day labour at the end. Unless he’s lost all his hair and acquired high waisted trousers he’ll quite simply not look, or be, as knackered as you.
And here I put my hand up and admit to being totally biased. Having not had the luxury of an adoring partner padding about looking like the alpha lion of the pride when I had my first baby, I relished and continue to relish the experience with my last two babies of having their father at my side not only during their births but at home afterwards, watching him growing daily in stature as he cradles fretful babies against his manly chest (effective therapy for fretful women, too), soothes them with his deep, rumbling voice, fills his digital camera with their bald, toothless little faces, spoons parsnip puree endlessly into their mouths while intoning Dr Seuss’s ABC of a Sunday morning…
Call this dead sexy? You bet I do.

But what do R’s mates call it? He’s about to find out, because the reunion is upon us and he’s unable to contain his excitement. He pauses only to unearth E who is crouched on the bathroom floor, in the dark. What are you doing, darling? asks Daddy, switching on the light. Mending my lighthouse, says E, putting the last brick on the top of the sequence of red, black, red, black.
Then quicker than you can say milk monitor, R is in his car and away.
He and a group of rowing cronies still meet forty odd summers after they last fitted blade to rollock, and reminisce over far too many Remy Martins in a panelled dining room somewhere in Henley. Here they look over the river, scene of some of their youthful triumphs, and pat their guts ruefully.
To be fair, they are all in good shape. If you recall, they all went rowing on their 40th anniversary. But the difference between R and the rest of them now is that most of his mates have been lucky enough to remain married to their childhood, or at least youthful, sweethearts and have begotten armies of stunning, successful offspring who are already airline pilots and vintners. Yes, the demographers would be proud. Many of his friends are already retiring and leading a life of six month cruises and second homes in the Bergerac region.
A shadow of my husband returns from his reunion. Even his eyeballs are yellow. Yes great fun, he says, sinking into the sofa. Wouldn’t stop teasing me about you. That I’m so young? No. T kept telling everyone how he’s been to every one of my weddings. You’re still pissed, I grumble. Now, what did they all say about the baby? And what else about me?
Old dog, he mutters. I rear up. What did you call me? No, no, not you. He lifts his hand in surrender. It’s me they were calling an old dog. You know, lots of back-slapping, leg pulling - Stuff about lead in the old pencil… He’s starting to snore.
Lead in the old pencil? Couldn’t they think of anything more original than that? He shakes his head. Only that at last I’d learned what to do with it. And what about me? I poke him in the arm. Did they say anything about me? You know, child-bride-mother of your progeny? Gorgeous, he slurs, head lolling sideways. I get a brief glimpse of what he’ll be like when he’s, er, a little older.
Gorgeous? I press him. They think you’re gorgeous, he confirms. And they think I’m mad. They’re just jealous, I say smugly, because it means you’re still at it. But he snores. And that’s all I get out of him for the rest of the day. Oh well. At least I can comfort myself with the fact that even on my most Dot Cottonish of days I will forever be the trophy wife to my husband’s sugar daddy, because I’ll forever be thirteen years younger.
Nevertheless, when R has recovered from his session of drinking like a 25 year old rugby player I ask him to dispense with certain tell tale signs of his imminent git-hood or at least keep them cunningly concealed.
He’s blissfully unaware, for example, that in an older man a friendly twinkle in the eye can very easily be mistaken for an evil leer. My poor husband is devastated at the news. You’re still allowed to wink, though, I tell him. Because that’s one of his most charming habits. No-one can take offence at a wink.
Next I warn him that he must never, ever, be tempted to pull on leather-backed woven driving gloves as advertised in Saga before taking the car out for a Sunday drive. Other motorists will take one look at those hands on the steering wheel and try to burn him up.
What other prejudices do you have about motorists, asks G, passing by on his way back to London an eager for some wisdom on the subject mindful of the fact that he very nearly ended his own driving in its infancy.
Stop calling them motorists, for one thing. Like holiday makers, it’s a horrible word only ever used by journalists.
Like the word romp? wonders G comparing the picture on his driving licence to the smooth young face in the mirror. Not a jot of difference, even after two years. As in ‘two’s company, three’s a sex romp?’ Or 'wed'. Or 'blunder.'
Never trust a car being driven at snail’s pace by what appears to be a single tuft of white hair. R is still intoning his advice. Or by someone too small to reach the head rest, I tell him. They’re either very old, or too young, and they’re likely to stop dead at any point, for no reason, and never get going again.. Steer clear of anyone wearing a baseball cap. He’ll be a wide boy paying no attention, showing off, chatting to his friends or listening to heart-attack inducing music.
Is that why they’re called glove compartments, then? queries G. His brain’s obviously got no further than first gear today. Who? Blokes in baseball caps? No, he says, those little lockers under the dash. To put your woven back leather gloves in? And when can I get a sat nav?
That’s another thing, I tell R. Anyone opening your glove compartment will know from the Tom Cruise aviators and humbugs that you’re getting on.
Who cares? he yawns. At least they haven’t got a pair of another woman’s frilly knickers in there. I’m like Michael Douglas, me. Because you have a much younger, sultry, buxom wife who’s given you two adorable children? No. Because at my age you don’t give a toss about what other people think.
Even if they’re saying you’ve had a face lift? G challenges.
Well, he’s comfortable, no matter who’s skin he’s in, retorts R. And anyway no-one could ever accuse me of having a face lift.
Status Quo fans never do, says G obliquely, disappearing up the stairs to put gel into his little brother's hair.
I care if people think we’re old, I tell him. I haven’t finished my list of age-revealing crimes. C had a real shock the other day. Who’s C? R asks. If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand – Now who’s revealing their age? he laughs.
It’s just that C was sitting here and she thought she’d found some dirty magazines. R struggles upright. Impossible! She thought she’d found something kinky hidden under our stack of Better Homes Than Yours magazine. R’s all ears now. What she saw was this. I half unfold the offending page to reveal an array of vicious looking riding crops with handles set off with hand-stitched leather wrist straps.
So? R tugs the page out of my grasp. Well, I say, you and I know what these are, but she was looking at me funny when I came back and looked totally aghast when she said, Rapunzel, what’s a Finger Loop Anvil Pruner? R relaxes. I’ll have you know it’s extremely cutting edge. His shoulders start to shake with silent laughter. Go on, he said. What else did she think she’d seen? I’m trying to look prim. Large Comfort Bypass Secateur? Precision Power lever?
He reaches forward and snatches the offending article out of my hands. OK, OK, he says. I’ll keep my gardening catalogues under lock and key in future.

As well as not giving a toss when you get older, says R a few days later, fielding a brace of children wielding torches that need fixing when he gets home from work. You have to laugh.
As always I look on, dewy eyed, as he tugs on pyjamas, brushes butter out of hair and makes The Gruffalo talk like Grant Mitchell. Amazing, said the Gruffalo. Amazing indeed, how my husband can shed all the day’s stresses and make his children, and his wife, howl with laughter.
If you’ve picked one of life’s gentlemen you’re on to a winner and so are your sons. Sometimes I’m tempted to say they don’t make them like my father or my R any more. My sisters and I obviously adore our dad, but it took our grandmother to point out just what a hero he was. Discussing his many attributes one day when we were kids she concluded: your father can do anything.
I replied cheekily, he couldn’t go to the moon, Grangran. She took another bite out of her egg sandwich (we were having a picnic at the time, as one always is when one is small) and calmly asserted, of course he could, dear, if he had the time.
Anyway, men like him with old fashioned courtesy and manners are few and far between. But we have one in our house, and I hope to rear three more.
So I’m showing my age. I don’t care. Show me a woman who doesn’t go all fluttery when a man stands up when she enters or leaves a room or a table, or doffs his hat if he’s wearing one. And I’ll show you a charmless old bat.
Eventually I have to stop the hilarity when R’s goofing round the bedroom yelling I’m an OGRE in Mike Myers’s hideous Scottish accent, and ask him, downstairs with a glass of wine and rewinding to his earlier comment, why he has to laugh.
You remember how your mother treasures the time when she was mistaken for G’s mum, some years ago? he begins, chucking peanuts in the air and catching them with his teeth. I nod. She probably still could be. She’s not only fitter than most teenagers, she has the bone structure to make Charlotte Rampling weep.
I know, I know, he says. And wasn’t she testing her new carver skis at the time?
Yes, but what of it? I wonder. Well, he says, I have the opposite problem. Now, problem is a word rarely used in our house, at least not by my perpetually optimistic husband. And anyway they’re not called problems any more in political-speak. They’re called challenges. Or issues. I ask you. Even traffic bulletins use the word now. We are reporting issues on the M3. So what’s that all about? White vans and Nissan Micras discussing their difficult childhoods, with no hard shoulder to cry on?
So do I have the opposite problem, I interrupt. People think I’m a kindly old biddy and that the adorable child I’m grasping by the ear lobe belongs to someone else. Not if you stick to your own advice about always wearing make up, clothes that fit properly and only eating bananas on Mondays, R says, patiently waiting for me to let him get to the point.
What opposite problem do you have, then, my love? I challenge him. I’ve lost the thread. If he’s not quick I’ll be snatching twenty winks.
As he starts to tell me about the funny thing that happened on the way back from the forum, I muse that for a man of his age my husband is in very good shape. Why do you think I married him? And before you say it, it was most definitely not for his money. All he brought to this particular party in the way of material goods was a sawn off rowing boat and a carriage clock.
But not only is he blessed in coming from what Grangran called ‘good stock’ meaning strong physically and intelligent mentally, but he is kindness personified and could charm the birds from the trees. After all, he charmed me from my fourth floor hovel in Earls Court –
He has very few wrinkles, thanks to smiling a lot and to the rigorous daily application of Astral cream (as advertised by that icon of ageless beauty herself, Joanna Lumley). He has almost as much hair as Frank Finlay and it’s easily as grey, but I would shoot him if I caught him trying to shave his chest or reaching for the Grecian 2000 - another kinky-sounding cosmetic which resonates more with garlanded youths cavorting about in loin cloths than the restoration of lost machismo by dint, or tint, of touching up the follicles Burt Reynolds style
I was only going to tell you what happened at work today, Burt, sorry R, says. Work? I ask, opening my eyes again. Remember, a well as being practically perfect in every way we older daddies have to earn a crust. It’s not all fixing Percy’s cracked funnel and removing stabilisers, you know. Monday morning, I go to work, and gravitas descends.
Who’s Gravi Tass?
Do you think I look older in my suit? It’s my turn to sit up. It’s only polite. I’m still at the table. Au contraire my darling, I soothe. If anything, you look even more handsome. But way too serious, he says gloomily. I had these clients today, he continues. What did they want? I ask politely. Oh, the usual. He pours another Famous Grouse. Sober advice about the wording of a codicil and how to sever a tenancy. Ouch, I say. Yes, he says, ouch indeed, because it was time for them to hand a cheque over but before they did the woman started looking round at all my family snaps, and she pointed at the pictures of E and said isn’t your grandson the spitting image!
You weren’t offended I hope? I ask running a finger over his seven o’clock shadow. Far from it, he says. That’s what I mean. You have to laugh. I take great delight in showing them the misty photo of my trophy bride and explaining that those scamps are the fruit of my loins.
You don’t really say fruit of my loins! I shriek, and he laughs again. So I bet there’s much hair-patting and eyelash fluttering and follow-up appointment making from the female client after that, I conclude. Because now they’ll look at you with new eyes.
Ah, he says, finishing his supper. But what will they think if they see me hobbling along the street later, hugging the fence as I struggle to get back to my car. They’ll think I’ve been pretending to be youthful and virile all this time.
Never, I say. Your boys are living proof that you’re a stud. They’ll just think, I don’t know, that you’ve just had a rather vigorous session – I leave a suggestive pause.
Yeah, he groans. With my chiropractor.