There was a time in my early thirties, when I was convinced that the gold old days- where boys would write poems, sleep outside my house and do all kinds of crazily romantic things were done and over with. After all I was older, twenty kilos heavier and a lot less complicated than I was, in my teens.

I’ve never been beautiful or nice for that matter but good men like good women, want someone to fix and who requires more fixing than moi. But what I know now, I didn’t know, then. At the time, I was between the fire and the frying pan, with my self image at the lowest ebb.

The tables have turned and how! So, this is how my day went, in between shit loads of work. Got a series of very sweet messages from a friend, whose worked up about my BP. Then received a call from my crazy Shets, saying all the things, he’s been saying for as long as I’ve known him. Those being the cherries and this photograph, from the sweetest man being the cake. Wells me up.

When you live in a society which is obsessed with fair skin, the right weight and the ripe age it is but natural to believe that as you grow older, you won’t find love. But that’s so not the case. In a year, I’ll be all of forty years old and I have never been looked at with more admiration, treated so lovingly and held in higher esteem, than I am now. It’s only because of how I treat myself that the men in my life know how to treat me or because no one has me (highly probable). As the the wrinkles set in and a few strands turn, grey, I’m convinced life and love get better as you age.