Three times last week. But who’s counting? Well, me actually and I
can’t quite believe it.
At the ripe old age of 72 I have experienced — and of course, as warned by all
good magazines, expected — the slowing down of libido. But I certainly did not expect compulsory lockdown to instigate a resurgence of oldie marital sex.
Cooking, yes — I’ve certainly been baking all manner of goodies, pouncing on bags of flour as if panning for gold and humble bragging all over social media
about my prowess and then distributing baked goodies as if I’m Princess Charlotte.
And, of course, drinking — how lucky I’d spent the last of my wages on panic-buying flavoured gin and chocolate.
Then there’s walking. Luckily we back right on to a beautiful ex-railway country walk, populated with rabbits and even a badger who snuffled into view the other night.
With beautiful Rollo, our four year old Westlake Terrier, trotting at
our side we’ve investigated never before seen footpaths and bridleways, jumping out of bed at the first sunrise to listen to the dawn chorus — and it is magical. Striding out along the bridleway yesterday, a full grown fluffy fox dashed out in front of us and Rollo took off. I even managed to break into a jog in an effort
to keep my chasing terrier in my view. Sorry Joe Wicks, no more exercise today.

However, this emerging marital shenanigans — this is different. Until lockdown, I’d been working full time as a medical secretary in a private hospital, driving down the M11 to an Essex outpost to catch the first Central line tube into central London at 5.15am (an early bird gets a parking space!) only to stuff myself into the overcrowded tube at gone 7pm to pick at a ready meal and then collapse on
the sofa. Talking — no. Housework — even more no. And sex? Sorry, not interested. Just too tired, too stressed, too everything.
However, now not even furloughed but redundant, and with no possibility of work on the horizon, it’s taken a lot of heart searching and a deal of inward (and outward says hubby) moaning, to get my head round the fact that at my
age it is becoming increasingly unlikely that I’ll find another med sec role.
So, curling up in bed at night in our four-poster with Rollo snoring contentedly under the bed, Ambercat purring inside the wardrobe, I’d switched on the radio to
Smooth, draped the fairylights haphazardly across the top of the bed and we snuggled up. And, of course, with hands roaming everywhere one thing led to another — and what a good night’s sleep we had.
Next morning, beaming at each other over toast and cereal, husband was definitely amenable to anything I suggested — ironing, loading the dishwasher (apparently I don’t “do it right”) and even watching Tipping Point, Pointless
and Corrie. Come bedtime — and sinking into freshly laundered sheets (washing machine washed — and husband ironed!), hairy legs, unwashed hair, mascara-less lashes, unshaven husband, coffee breath — nothing seems to daunt us — love lockdown was on.
And this is how it’s been. Every morning we wake up refreshed ready to roam the bridleways and every evening, we find ourselves waiting eagerly for 10.30 (after all even lockdown lovers must watch the news) and randy romance.