So, Nadal won his 6th Roland Garros, last night. What a pity I don’t live in Paris anymore! I’d have taken the boy out on the town, for an evening he’d never forget. Although – well, now that I’m with Burke (a not necessarily very fortunate relic of that same Parisian period, if you’ll forgive my putting it so uncharitably), I’m not really supposed to wine and dine gorgeous 24 year olds.
I quite see the logic in that, I must say. You know I don’t believe in monogamy, but when I’m with a man who is very adamant about the subject, I do try not to hurt his feelings by shagging some nubile hottie. On the other hand, an older man with indifferent physique is fair game, I feel. Not that I’ve discussed it with Burke, or with most of my better halves, but it would be absurd to call a night out with somebody very ordinary, with an ordinary body, cheating. Don’t you rather agree? I mean, how could one’s partner possibly be jealous? I don’t think it’s genuinely cheating unless you put your heart and soul into it, I always say. And that is such a rare thing with me, as you know.
I shouldn’t watch those tennis matches. It’s insupportable, as the French say – you see this perfectly built child-man sweating and running around rippling his perfect muscles, and the next moment you look at your own partner, and…Well, I don’t mean to be unkind. But one does tend to compare, doesn’t one? I’ve been urging Burke to go to a gym, but I should be realistic. I suppose it’s hopeless. At his advanced age they just can’t do the Nadal shape, can they, even if they work at it 8 hours every day. Which I'm just certain he will refuse to do, when asked. Stupid Mediterranean stubbornness.