I’m dishy. It’s official.
One of my mother’s friends told her after meeting me for the first time yesterday that I am ‘incredibly charming and very dishy’.
The fact that my mother’s friend is a local magistrate makes it official. I’m charming and dishy.
The fact that her friend is seventy-five years old is neither here nor there, really.
I’m just dishy. Charming and dishy.
The fact that my mother’s perceptive friend is a man and very gay – a very gay man – is also of no objective import.
At my age and long-running singular status, I have to learn to enjoy any compliments I can get.