It’s received wisdom that women over a certain age don’t get whistled at. We’re supposed to be “relieved” that we can walk past a building site without the dusty denim-clad workers giving us the eye and following up with a whistle. Well, it may be a “relief” and it may be un-PC to admit it, but, hey, having some hunky man whistle at you is bloody good for the ego. Cyndy and I were walking across a car park earlier today and (don’t tell the hubbies), but we got wolf-whistled at. (We looked around and checked; there were no other candidates. It was definitely us). And, yes, we were both amused and – we admit it – flattered.
Have you been whistled at recently, and if so, how did it make you feel?
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On my way home from a biz function, for which I had dressed very nicely indeed, I dropped by a winery to pick up some port, and since I’d never been there, I paid for a tasting. There was this older guy behind the bar, dressed in black, Italian accent, looked like Keith Richards without all the crap in his hair. And with nice skin. Holy moly. For a half hour he was my personal sommelier. All the rest of the peeps in the room were younger, loud, drunk. But Keith and I were clicking like crazy. It was candy for an old broad.