Why Kylie puts our mums in the shade
We were on our way for Mothers' Day cards.
Without warning, Bloke stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of House of Fraser.
"I want THAT," he said.
His eyes were huge and round and his tone was that of a small boy who has suddenly spotted the latest shiny yellow plastic road smasher-upper from Bob the Builder.
Was it some elegant designer threads he was lusting for, or one of those high-definition tellies that the poorer people are, the bigger they buy?
No, reader. It was a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Kylie that had him transfixed. "I WANT it," he repeated. There was a drop of something that looked suspiciously like drool at the corner of his mouth.
I sighed the sigh of a woman resigned. There was absolutely no point in dragging him away to look at loving ditties for the women that bore us, raised us and gave us the best years of their lives. They were forgotten; tossed aside. Replaced by Kylie, the true queen of his heart.
She was standing there, head to perfect, tiddly little toe, in mock Mariyn Monroe pose, advertising her own range of glamorous bedding. She wasn't saying: "Come slip beneath the sheets with me", but he was convinced the inference was there.
There was nothing for it but to stand quietly and patiently by his side while he took in every last millimetre. And remembered.
For Bloke has done what millions of men the world over can only ever dream of. And I don't mean marrying me. He has met the princess of pop, In the flesh. Sat with her, Had a drink with her.
He would have been able to have a conversation with her, had he been able to muster more than a squeaked hello (and no, she didn't have her gold hotpants on).
This once in a lifetime opportunity was all down to his well-connected first wife; her brother worked on Kylie's concert tours and had not only procured two free tickets, but an invite to the after-show party.
Bloke has dined out on this for years and I can honestly say, I don't feel the remotest tinge of jealousy.
When it comes to Kylie, every woman knows there simply is no competition. In fact, we love her too. She is the Walt Disney princess who grew up to be a little glamourpuss, just like we hoped to do.
To men, she's a pocket Venus. An approachable, smiley, teeny-tiny sex symbol they could pick up and run off with, without fear of slipping a disc.
Actually, she is the only woman in the world I would let Bloke sleep with if he got another chance (he likes to think that, if only his voice hadn't deserted him, he actually stood one the first time around). Similarly, he indulges my long and unrequited love for Clooney (now if only he made bedding).
Husband doesn't mind that I sit in open-mouthed wonder through every film with George in it. Or that every time he opens the fridge George is smiling down from the dog-eared picture I cut out of the Radio Times, reminding him of who really has first place in my affections.
He says I could sleep with George too, so long as it was just the once.
Though every so often, I find my cabbage-shaped fridge magnet stuck on George's nose and I am not likely to ever get to sit and squeek at George, as Bloke point-blank refuses to take me to Lake Como.
See how much less mature men are?
Got a view? Add your comment below.
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Thursday 24 May 2012
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