A group of friends and I were enjoying a convivial ale at a local establishment recently when a vision of loveliness positively wafted by the window like a refreshing summer breeze.

At the time we were discussing something really important, either the political situation in Venezuela or whether a combover hairdo really is sexy, I can't quite remember, but it wasn't enough to keep us from stealing a casual glance.

So we did.

The young lady in question was extremely attractive, well groomed, confident and no doubt used to the odd approving look. She flashed us a smile and carried on her way.


As we all settled back round into our comfy chairs, slowly you understand lest the arthritic hips and gout gave us a bit of reminder, there was general acceptance of the fact that most attractive young things find us 'oldies' (by which I mean anyone over 30) nothing more than a novelty.

"But who", someone ventured "would you leave home for?"

I should stress at this point (before pots and pans are thrown) this was nothing more than a hypothetical debate among four silly sods who had nothing better to do. But boy it was fun. Bugger Venezuela and combovers. This was a real debate.

Preferences ranged from Angelina Jolie to Mila Kunis to Serena Williams to the ginger woman on Shorty whose mum was having a baby and whose husband died leaving her millions and whose brother had a fling with an older nurse and whose sister nearly ran off with an exchange student. (Phew! Busy family) Not that we watch it of course.

"But what about the wives," someone said. "My wife likes that George Clooney". We could do nothing but agree. George is a good looking guy. The swine. We've all decided to punch him on the nose and warn him to keep his distance next time we see him.

Anyway, in my house it's a no brainer. If Rod Stewart should ever cast an eye in the general direction of Mrs P (presumably the only time their paths could cross would be while rummaging through the freezer section at Pak n Save while looking for the mixed veg specials) her knicker elastic would melt and she'd be gone in a flash.

And she's not the only one. I am reminded of the time I was required to accompany the eastside branch of the Rod Stewart Fan Club to a concert in Auckland, just in case they threw their underwear on stage or Rod made a move on "our" chicks.

Just how I was selected for this assignment remains a mystery but it appears to have had something to do with the other possibilities for the role _ Ian and Patrick _ being otherwise occupied with pursuits involving fish and a mountainbike.

Anyway, not content with various tartan adornments, Kaye, Brig and Shirley, decided to wear matching T-shirts, one with a large letter R on it, another with an O and the last with a D. (You can see where this is going.) Obviously the plan was to leap to their feet in unison and scream for attention, whereupon the wrinkled one on stage would look up and see the word R-O-D spelt out.

Unfortunately the girls were so excited they got the order wrong and spelled the word D-O-R. Positioned at the end of the spelling mistake I wished like hell I had a large K on my T shirt!

As for me, gentlemanly decorum prevents me revealing the name of the star who floated my boat way back in the 70s and 80s.

All I'll say is if Mrs P was off with Rod somewhere and this lady asked me to meet her by The Banks Of The Ohio and get Physical this is one fan who'd be Hopelessly Devoted.

Work that out.