Either a teenage moment, or a fairly rare disease

I don’t know what it was; yesterday I stared at men’s hands; the nice hands of the shop assistant who was wrapping up my purchases, then my hairdresser’s tan, muscular arms. I was staring at him in the mirror, so taken, somehow wanting to bite. Perhaps a strange case of misspent lust, perhaps the onset of rabies, I don’t know, time will tell.

This afternoon I was extremely sophisticated in an upper middle class hippie kind of way, sipping a soy milk latte and nibbling on a spelt bun, do you hate me? And checking out people’s asses from my vantage point. How disconcerting, I said to my soy latte companion, this week I’m finding men sexier than women.


He was ignoring me, so, slurping, I went off into a reverie about vague malecrushes I would now like to share with you. I tend to go for tortured, self-deprecating French singers/songwriters with messy hair.

Wouldn't you? I know I would.