But there is a category of age-gap sex and the city that has got nothing to do with being cool, and that’s the one that I fit into. Though I used to go out out with a much, much older TV presenter (he was 30 years older than me) whose only waking thought was raving at Torture Gardens, on the whole my vintage lovers have acted even older than the age on their passports (blue from the first time around). This means that there are things to get used to. “Meet you at the club” means The Atheneaum not The Box, and we tend to wander around Wren churches not Broadway Market at the weekend. This is a good thing, as I’m afraid the ship of my boyfriend sporting a trendy man bun or, in fact, any hair at all, sailed decades ago.
