Sam Taylor Wood has married her 'toyboy'

Sam Taylor Wood and Aaron Johnson have tied the knot!
Well good for them - Aaron clearly has more staying power than I predicted (in an earlier blog post) when it comes to throwing himself into family life at such a tender age.
And for any of you cynics out there tutting and saying that he is clearly just using her to forward his career/fame etc, I've also been reliably informed by a film biz friend of mine, that they are genuinely mad about each other.
And why shouldn't they be?!
Regular visitors to my blog will know that this is the point when I rant a little bit about the fact that people are so suspicious of any relationship with a significant age difference.. but it still stuns me that any media report I've read of their wedding has used the word Toyboy in the first few words, called their relationship 'controversial' and pointed to the 23-year age gap before the first paragraph has even finished.
Even poor Sam has felt compelled to tell one reporter: "In the old days 'controversial in a relationship meant same -sex or mixed race. Now, it is a woman with a younger man. That would not happen with a man."
And Aaron, bless him, pointed out: "We don't see an age gap, we just see each other."

click here to read the Daily Mail's report of the wedding

Sex and the City's Mr Big marries his 'toy girl'

The tabloids' double standards when it comes to age gaps in relationships are in evidence yet again!
The Daily Mail, National Enquirer etc have all featured the story about Sex and the City's Mr Big (Chris Noth) finally tying the knot with his long term sweetheart...
He is 57 and she is 29, yet NOWHERE is the age difference mentioned. Nowhere is he referred to as sweeping his 'toy girl' off her feet or have the journalists used the phrase 'Despite nearly a 20 year age gap, the couple, blah blah, blah "
Compare that to the pressure that Demi and Ashton were put under, or the 'toyboy' references that have littered any story about Madonna dating a man any younger than her.

Cougar Goes Camping

Half term. And, for me, that means the chance to get on with some writing while the kids drift in and out of the house making few extra demands, except for the odd meal, drink and snack. Perfect.

 I love having days off at home. I like being able to take my time over all the things that are either rushed or don’t get done in a usual working week. I love drinking at least a pint of Earl Grey at the breakfast table, taking leisurely baths, pottering in the garden – even hanging up the pile of discarded clothes in the bedroom and having the chance to regain some sense of order.

Summer Holidays, Easter holidays, and even Christmas holidays always seem to come with a pressure to “DO” something. People always ask what your PLANS are, what you are going to DO, where you are going to GO – but half terms come and go more quietly, with less expectation from the outside world and so, for me, are a wonderful opportunity to quietly wallow in the gift of extra time.

But this half term, Ad Man’s 11 year old son has announced he wants to come and stay, so AD Man has taken a week off work, and my planned week of pottering is instantly replaced by a flurry of plans for Father/Son bonding activities.

“Why don’t we go camping?” suggests Ad Man.

“Or, we could stay at home and do some day trips..” I offer, hopefully.

“But I’m on holiday,” he protests. “I want to DO something.”

Of course, I should be more sympathetic. For Ad Man, the usual working week means getting up before the birds have even realised it’s time to start chirping, and then commuting two hours into central London to work a full day, before commuting the two hours home again. He goes for months hardly seeing the house in daylight, so I can understand that he wants to make the most of his time off.

I try a bit harder to be sympathetic – but camping, in a now chilly May.. really?

“It will be great,” he reassures me. “We’ve got that new tent, with separate sleeping pods, so the boys can have their own space, and we can snuggle up together. And there’s a new camping cooker… “

Not wanting to seem churlish, I weaken. But fast forward a few days, and I’m somewhat regretting my decision. I’m on a windy ridge in Dorset, trying desperately to tame three square metres of flapping tent fabric, while Ad Man runs around shouting instructions above the noise of the gale that is whistling between us. Meanwhile, of course, both his son and mine sit cocooned in the warm car with their noses in their mobile phones and oblivious to it all.

“We’ve nearly done it!” Ad Man yells, trying to keep morale high while gripping furiously onto three airborne corners. But it’s beginning to rain, and out of the corner of one eye, I can see a family further down the field rushing in horror after their tent which has taken off and is now flying away from them and over their parked Audi Estate.

Finally, against the odds, we manage to hammer in the final peg, and I have to admit that the tent is a triumph. It sleeps eight and has a central living area that is tall enough even for Ad Man to stand and walk around in. But it towers above everything around it like a WAG-style mansion in a field of modest semi-detacheds, and, not used to such grandeur, I feel rather embarrassed as I unpack the car and shuffle in and out with our bedding and supplies.

It has now taken us nearly two hours to set up home in a field and the boys are starving, but it’s too wet and windy to barbecue the family pack of burgers and sausages we’ve brought with us. Instead we decide to try and cook inside the tent and so balance the new camping stove precariously on top of the dog’s metal crate (I'd rather call it 'bed') in the awning area. Then, to keep the dog safely away from the food and cooker, we zip up the fly screen so that the boys, dog and I are sealed in on one side, in the main body of the tent, while Ad Man and his new cooker are screened off in the awning. 

It’s a preposterous set up, but unable to think of a better way of managing the situation, we spend the next 20 minutes, repeatedly unzipping a small gap in the fly screen  in order to pass cooking utensils, burgers/sausages and ketchup backwards and forwards between Toyboy chef and us diners – as if it were some sort of sophisticated mosquito-proof serving hatch. Of course, even when the frying pan catches fire and threatens to engulf the tent in flames, it does nothing to deter Ad Man’s enthusiasm – so I try to be a better person myself, ignore my desperate craving for a glass of wine and not to growl at the boys if they want something from “the other side” of the screen.

Amazingly, we manage to finish dinner without any trips to the vets or A & E, but then I look at my watch and groan. It’s only half past eight and it’s still light, but it’s also still blowing a gale and all I really want to do is go to bed.

Ad Man, on the other hand, decides to brave the wind and sets himself up outside in a chair, with beer, Kindle and pipe, so he can take in the great outdoors, and enjoy the view of Corfe Castle and the steam train meandering through the hills.

I’m exhausted from a day of being ‘plucky’, and so retreat to my ‘pod’, but under the shadow of a hoodie, a sleeping bag and Melin Tregwynt blanket, there’s not enough light to read the weekend Guardian, so I give in and go to sleep..

Well, that’s if you can call a night of gale force winds, Ad Man snoring, flapping tent fabric and resonating car alarms a “sleep”…

The next morning I realise I have to do as my granny always told me and ‘be true to myself’.

“I’m going home,” I tell Ad Man.

“I know,” he says.

And so now, I’m back in my kitchen, drinking my Earl Grey, and writing. Everything is as it should be. But of course, there’s that little part of me that wishes I was in that windy field in Dorset where Ad Man and the two boys are still battling bravely on. Fickle, me?

Juggling parenting, Michael Buble and a toyboy - a Cougar needs more time

“Darling,” I said.

“Yes” said Ad Man, slurring, from 100-plus miles away.

"It’s 3am. I’m trying to sleep.”

“Yes, but listen – it’s our tune…!”

I groaned and buried my head in my pillow while the muffled tones of Michael Buble told me that I was his ‘getaway car’ and his ‘Everything’..

First the pleasure, then the pain.

I guess it was inevitable that after managing to sneak off alone with Ad Man to France, I’d pay for it when I returned.

After a glorious week of  beach walks, seafood and Chablis, we’d come home to the usual mayhem of dog, cat, dead fish and kids  - and the realisation that Daughter’s A level work was not exactly on schedule.

I’ve never been one of those mothers who gets very  involved in the minutiae of their children’s school work – but even I could tell that Daughter’s past week had been more about boys, parties and Facebook than the Cold War and Hamlet. There was nothing for it. I needed to take her away from all distractions so she could recover some focus.

Our self-imposed exile was in Devon, at my mother’s house. For four days.  Unfortunately I couldn’t think of anywhere else that would be free – well in monetary terms at least. It meant four days of biting my tongue and trying to limit my mother’s wine intake. I hoped one day Daughter would thank me for it.

The plan was that I would take the dog, and Son G would go to his Dad’s house – so this meant Ad Man had four days  to himself – probably for the first time since we’d all moved in together.

“What are you going to do?” I asked, before we left.

“Not much. Probably watch a box set of Glee, sit alone on the sofa and miss you.”

I gave him a big hug. “I’ll miss you too.”

“Or I might phone Simon..” he added casually.

And there it was. Of course, Ad Man had already spotted an opportunity to make the most of his freedom, and was planning to do what any young man with a Saturday night to himself would do..

“You’re going clubbing?”

“Mmmm,” he replied, feigning distraction. “No, I expect we’ll just have a BBQ and watch some Top Gear together.”

“Yeah right.”

I could hardly complain. After all, Ad Man gave up his friends, his curry house, and his nights at Watford’s Reflex to come and live with me on the south coast. And while he has embraced his new role as a suburban step dad in the same good natured, sunny way with which he meets most challenges – he inevitably misses his friends and his old – well, young – life at times.

Tempted by blondes and Tinie Tempah

And so, late on Saturday night -while I was trying hard to relax in my mother’s guest bedroom, surrounded by more floral decoration than Chelsea flower show could boast – Ad Man and his mate Simon were in central Southampton downing a cocktail of lager, sambuca, lager and sambuca, and dancing to Tinie Tempah surrounded by a host of 20-year-old peroxide blondes.

I trusted him completely, I just wished I was there too. Not for the blondes and the Tinie Tempah so much, but just to be able to dance with him, get a bit drunk with him and have a laugh with him – rather than having to be the grown-up, at home, supervising the revision progress.

The fact that he was out indulging in youthful pastimes, just emphasised the dichotomy I so often feel these days;  that while one part of me is growing older and has the responsibilities that come from being a parent of teenage children (something I wouldn’t miss for the world), the other part of me still feels young and rebellious and refuses to accept a life of slippers ,TV suppers – and floral wallpaper.

Which is why, when he called me from our living room at 3am, to play ‘our tune’ down the phone, I wasn’t angry – just frustrated. Frustrated that I wasn’t there to dance to it with him, as we did on our wedding day, and on that lovely, crazy night on the Isle of Wight, in a deserted restaurant, where they didn’t mind that we took over their music system and played it over and over again.

The older I get, the more time I need. I need time to work, time to be a parent, time to be a friend and time to be a lover too –and there just simply isn’t enough of it to be all of those things. I want to be a good parent above all, but I also want to dance with my Ad Man too…

The next day, mission almost accomplished, Daughter and I packed up the textbooks and the dog, waved goodbye to my Mum and did the three-hour drive back home – to find Ad Man still in bits.

“I think I’m getting old," he said looking pale. “My body just can’t take the late nights and booze anymore.”

“Rubbish,” I said. “You’ve got years of partying left in you. Maybe you just went a bit heavy on the sambuca.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, but wincing. He clearly wasn’t ready for the mention of liqueurs quite so soon.

Then I pulled out our slippers, and we both gratefully settled down for a night in together, in our own home, with supper, in front of the TV. It seems there's only so much dancing and drinking even a toy boy can do..

The Cougar makes it to the magazine stands

It seems word of this blog is spreading, and the latest to pick up on it is Easy Living magazine. For those of you who want the full technicolour version, then you can pick up the April issue in a newsagents near you now. But for those of you lacking cash/the inclination/or living in foreign climes... here is the unedited, author's cut.. (and please accept this as my apology for not posting here recently!)






A Cougar Gets Married..........
A few weeks ago, I got married. Nothing unusual in that - it was a beautiful wedding at a boutique hotel, followed by bubbly and cupcakes on Brownsea Island in Poole Harbour.. We didn’t have many guests, just our family and close friends – but if you’d looked carefully, you’d have spotted that while the bride’s side was filled with friends in their forties and fifties, the groom’s was populated by a group of guys who were significantly younger – much younger. Yes, despite being 40-plus, divorced, and a single mother to two children, it seems I have just joined the likes of Demi Moore, Halle Berry, Sam Taylor Wood and many other women of note, and bagged myself a toy boy!
How on earth did that happen? It certainly wasn’t planned. Because, although the media have come up with the rather predatory label of ‘cougar’ for any woman dating someone significantly younger than herself, I certainly didn’t spend my evenings prowling bars in search of younger prey. That, to me, just smacks of young man’s fantasy. I suspect the reality is that most “cougars”, like me, have simply found themselves falling for someone who happens to be born eleven years later than themselves. I also suspect that many of them, like me, then spent quite a bit of time wrestling with the situation, and wondering whether such a relationship could have any real future.
I certainly spent many evenings with friends, and a few bottles of red, debating the pros and cons of succumbing to the charms of the persistent young advertising manager in my office who was pressing me for a date. I knew he made me laugh and had a carefree manner that was very attractive, but the age issue did concern me. I was already nursing a rather bruised and battered heart having been through a painful marriage break up a year or so previously, and I suppose I was scared that I might fall in love only to be cast aside by an ambivalent young stag. Of course logic should have told me that could happen whatever year the object of one’s affections was born, but nevertheless…
The more impetuous of my friends obviously advised me to “go for it”, while the more settled and cautious, queried where it was likely to go and, if there was no future in it, then why waste my time fooling around with someone who was still at primary school when I was at university? Ultimately though I decided that I had nothing to lose, except my dignity, and that I would continue seeing him for as long as it was fun. That was four years ago, and I’m clearly still having fun.
Dating a toy boy has been a whirl of laughs, new experiences and opportunities to rekindle forgotten pastimes too. With my Simon at my side I have learnt to wakeboard, been coasteering (jumping off cliffs), bought a boat, flown from Bournemouth to Glasgow just for a day, gone clubbing into the small hours and much much more. He has the energy and enthusiasm to try new things, without worrying that he’ll put out his back, break something or miss his favourite programme on TV. The difference between dating a 30-something and a 40-something (and I do recognise that I am generalising massively here) is that the toy boy still believes he can bounce. Cynicism, fear of failure and middle-aged aches and pains are yet to set in and so, when faced with a new hurdle (literally), he’ll run at it like a puppy and, even if it does go horribly wrong, he’ll simply get up, shake himself off, and have another go.
It’s so refreshing. I love the young man’s sense of life still being there for the taking and shaping - and I like being surrounded by his friends who are still working out what they want in terms of careers, houses and women.
Even my kids love the new energy that Simon’s brought into our lives. Although my teenage daughter inevitably greeted our relationship with some scepticism at first (”he’s how old? Ugh, that’s, like, disgusting”) even she can’t help but giggle at his antics. And my son, 12, loves the fact that we now go out cycling with an ‘adult’ who will try to leap over ditches and logs, and who comes back as mud spattered as him.
My previous long term relationship was with a golf fanatic who would rise early, spend half the weekend on the golf course and the other half asleep, so for me it’s a real joy that toy boy and I can be out having fun together. There are times that Simon’s ‘bounce’ becomes a bit too much though. Such as the morning when I got the call to say he’d been knocked off his motorbike on the middle of the M4’s rush hour, but had still continued into central London with a broken foot. And the times when it’s 2am and my liver is begging to be taken home. Overall though it has brightened and enhanced my life, not darkened it – and it’s his enthusiasm that has continued to push our relationship forwards, despite my reservations about the age gap at times.
But why is it that we all make such a big deal out of age differences? Sure, when you’re an adolescent and still have plenty to learn about the world, launching into a relationship with someone who has already been there, done that, and got the t-shirt can inevitably lead to various conflicts of interest. But once you’ve both moved out of home, become established in your careers, travelled a bit, had your heart broken a few times and learnt a lot from the experience, then surely you are both more or less looking for the same things in life - so where is the problem? I suspect that what fascinates us, or confuses us, is a couple’s perceived physical compatibility, or rather incompatibility. Just as we find it hard to accept a very tall woman going out with someone very short (think Jamie Callum and Sophie Dahl, or Woody Allen and almost anyone) or someone very beautiful going out with someone plain (think Woody Allen again), we are suspicious of any coupling that seems unequal in corporal terms. Why is she hanging out with HIM? What does he see in HER? If a couple aren’t of the same age, background or height, we are suspicious of their agenda. It rocks our perception of what is normal - and yet, open any book on relationships, and the ubiquitous message is that what is most important is what lies beneath the skin, not how smooth or wrinkly that skin might be.
I’ve maybe been helped a little in that department in that Ad Man lost his hair prematurely, which can give him the air of someone rather older at times (it fooled me at first), but I have still suffered my own fair share of insecurities. Yes, he may think I’m lovely now, but what about when I’m 50 and he’s 40. Or I’m 60 and he’s 50. Society cuts men a lot more slack than women when it comes to ageing. Men grow ‘rugged’, while women just grow wrinkly. So I admit I have increasingly found myself drawn to the beauty products that promise a smoother complexion, if not eternal youth, and there are mornings after a heavy ‘night before’ when I’ve buried my head in the pillow so that he can’t see the ‘after’ effects then rushed to the bathroom to smother myself in cougar flash balm.
When it comes to style too, while most 40-somethings are wondering how to successfully dress more like sophisticated mutton and rather less like lamb, I’ve got the added complication of being a mutton who is constantly surrounded by lambs, and as a result sometimes doesn’t really know which field she is supposed to be in. But the more our relationship has progressed, the more relaxed I’ve become, and eventually I’ve realised that how I look really doesn’t make much difference to him. He knows what’s important, and airbrushed perfection comes way down a list which, as far as he’s concerned, is topped by more lasting qualities such as wit, intelligence, confidence and understanding.
Still, it was only when he suggested that we move in together that I finally accepted that he might actually be serious about this whole older woman thing. At first I was still keen to play it safe, and suggested that he moved into my tiny house (so that I still had my base if it all went wrong) but then I realised that, sweet as my little house was, it was just not going to cope with a boisterous adult there on a full time basis. And so it was that I was forced to take a leap of faith, and once again share a mortgage with a man – only this time a very young man. I only fully appreciated what I was letting myself in for when he and a bunch of mates turned up outside our new home with a white van packed to capacity with guitars, massive speakers, Led Zep CDs and Phillippe Starck chairs which we then attempted to blend seamlessly with my Joni Mitchell and shabby chic. Somehow or other though, just like our relationship, it works, and whenever I wince at the sight of the endless lengths of speaker cable, I just have to remind myself that he left his bachelor pad, all his friends, his local curry house and pub to join me in middle class, middle aged suburbia 90 miles further south. Not only that, but his weekends of late night clubbing, takeaways and lie-ins have been replaced by early morning trips to children’s tennis lessons, forty-something dinner parties and talk of Ofsted reports. He must love me!
But, actually I know he does, because he tells me so – every day. That’s the other thing about toy boys. They’re not afraid to wear their heart on their sleeve, and actually communicate whatever it is they’re feeling. And they know that women like them to do that. Today’s thirty-year-old male was brought up in the Eighties by a mother who was more likely to go out to work, be independent and to speak her mind than those of the generation before. He was still an impressionable teenager when Princess Diana died and the nation openly mourned. And magazines such as GQ and Mens’ Health were always readily available to tell him how women work and what they want, as soon as he was ready to know. As a result the toy boy is far less concerned about being the macho hunter-gatherer, is able to wear moisturiser without a second thought, can express his emotions freely and is much more interested in simply pleasing women. Hurrah!
These qualities are, happily, carried over into the bedroom too. Today’s young male is bombarded by so much media on what women want, what they expect, and how to keep them happy, that the poor guys are under a lot more pressure in that department than the 40-something man ever was. Add to that, the high street presence of Agent Provocateur and Ann Summers, and most 30-somethings now feel they can’t possibly take a girl to the bedroom unless they have prepared a fully orchestrated 40-minute routine featuring a range of props and toys. How on earth could I fail to appreciate such effort, energy and prowess? Though there have been moments when, perhaps rather churlishly, I’ve suggested that sometimes a woman just wants a bit of simple loving, without having every single button pushed first…
But I love the way we communicate with each other, both in and out of the bedroom. For the first time I feel like I’m really being listened to, and understood. And having already experienced the collapse of a marriage due to a lack of effective communication, it’s important to me. Of course we are helped in that this is the ultimate age of communication – and for the first time in my life I’ve been wooed and seduced by texts and emails as much as whispered sweet nothings. When we come together in the evenings, there’s hardly any need for the “how was your day dear?” because we’ve exchanged enough texts or mails throughout the day to already know.
For Simon too though, good communication is important, and he says this is the first relationship that he’s had in which he has felt able to say what he feels without any negativity leading to a dramatic showdown. It seems the 40-something has the edge over the 20-something female in this regard, as the older woman has been through enough ups and downs to only get stressed by the things that really matter, and not throw a hissy fit when something isn’t perfect. Simon feels able to be completely himself, whether that’s laughing for the umpteenth time at Top Gear, or crying when some pop diva changes key..
And talking of crying… Our wedding was full of laughter, but it was also soaked in tears – all his, not mine. He was red eyed in the morning, welling up when I walked down the aisle, and doing so once again as he stumbled over the vows we’d written together. But it was as I kissed away his tears before they rolled down his cheeks, that I knew that was exactly why I was there, why I was marrying him, and why I’m more than happy to be labelled a Cougar.
(read more about living with a toyboy at www.thecougarandthetoyboy.blogspot.com

Cougar Fashion - what wearing shorts says about you

Every woman may think she has a style challenge on her hands when she looks in the wardrobe each morning, but believe me, the Cougar has twice the dilemma. Whereas most 40-somethings are simply working out how to hide various lumps and bumps and avoid looking like mutton dressed as lamb, the Cougar is also wondering how on earth one should dress when one IS a mutton but spends one’s life permanently surrounded by lambs. I frequently lose track of which field I am supposed to be grazing in, and either meet AdMan feeling as if I’m dressed like his mother, or head into work looking like I’ve had an unfortunate date with Paris Hilton’s stylist.

That said, I must admit, I have always wondered why, if your body is in relatively good nick, the older woman is suddenly supposed to abandon certain fashions in favour of the classic black trouser suit, and head for M&S rather than Top Shop. My passport might say I’m 40 plus, but my body is pretty much the same now as it was when I was twenty or thirty, so why, when there are high streets packed with overweight twenty-somethings, squeezed into items completely unsuitable for their body shape, should I feel that I can’t enjoy a fashion moment or two as much as they can? After all, I’ve never been someone to expose vast amounts of flesh, and bare legs and plunging necklines are just not my style, so is it that inappropriate for me to go for a bit of skinny jean street fashion or throw on a mini and opaques now and then?

Ad man of course, is very much in favour of the skinny jeans, or anything in fact which is tight and shows every curve. But then he’s male, and as such his tastes are shaped by what’s ‘sexy’  rather than what might be appropriate, so I don’t feel I can always rely on him as an acid test.

I decided instead to check out the pages of Grazia this week, to see what key looks might be Cougar friendly. Unfortunately the edition to hand was a little low on Cougar style (Elle, Madonna, Sadie and co were all obviously having a quiet week in the Bahamas) while all the females of  AdMan’s generation - Sienna, Fearne , Holly etc - were out in force as usual, variously featured in their ‘favourite skinnies’ or a short frock or two, but mostly in this season’s short shorts, black tights and boots.

“Well,” I mused, immediately losing focus on my original mission.. “There’s a look I can pull off.”  Of course I was basing this purely on the fact that it was a trend that I worked – and loved – way back in 1990. Admittedly, the look then was a bit more Yaz (ie ripped denim shorts, black tee, tights and DMs,) but with a bit of tweaking and the help of my daughter’s wardrobe, I knew I could give the 2010 version a go.

And so it was that I found myself in, broad daylight, dressed in tiny TopShop black shorts, laced up boots, and a checked shirt… Admittedly when I got outside and the cold air hit my thighs I did have a momentary sanity check, but undeterred, I headed out on my errands.  Less than an hour later and I’m asking the fashion gods why on earth they hadn’t reminded me that today was the day I had to drop the car at the garage…  Walking into a mechanic’s domain is always something of a challenge when you’re tall and blonde, but doing it in micro shorts is just bloody madness.. Do Fearne and Sienna get these problems? Of course not, they have someone else to do such menial tasks, leaving them to get papped simply clutching a latte and an oversized handbag and looking as cool as a well-iced gin and tonic.  Being a lesser mortal, all I could do was hug my short trench coat tightly around me and try to brave the quips and leers with as much dignity as possible.

Next stop, the library to return AdMan’s Sherlock Holmes’ collection.. That should be fine, I reassured myself, At least everyone has to be quiet in there. But even strolling down the high street towards the library, I was having my doubts. A van came up behind me and beeped appreciatively, but a nagging fear inside me was already imagining the occupants feeling completely conned, or worse, laughing their heads off, when they clocked the unexpected extra years on the face on the other side.

I began to wonder if that’s where I was going very wrong. Today your choice of clothes is all about sending a clear message to the world about what sort of person you are. What you don every morning is a way of letting everyone know what sort of people you hang out with, what music you like and maybe even what decade you were born in. And if that’s the case, was I sending out massively confused signals?  Did my shorts and boots combined with a 40-something face say, “Here’s an older woman who’s still in touch with what’s hot?”, “ Here’s a woman not afraid to wear what she wants?” Or simply, “Here’s an older woman who should know better”?

But of course, the Cougar is going to get a mixed bag of responses whatever she’s wearing. Whether in black trouser suit or micro mini, when I stand by my man, people will still do a double take, and will still judge. And for every person who says, “good for her, bagging a toyboy” there will be those who tut and disapprove.  Society doesn’t like people who challenge the usual way of doing things. The average person on the street wants us all to date someone of the same height, same colour and same background - and it rocks their suburban way of thinking when someone takes a different path. Well, to hell with them, I don’t want to be a sheep - whether I’m classified as mutton or lamb - I’m very happy to be a Cougar and, yes, I’m still quite liking the black shorts too…………….

Can a toyboy ever be too much of a boy for a Cougar?

So Cougar Sam Taylor Wood and her toy boy lover are now expecting a baby. Of course the fact that there’s 23 years between them (she’s 42, he’s 19) has obviously made the announcement all the more newsworthy…  so I’ve been considering where this Cougar should stand on the matter.

The idea of creating a little being that was part Cougar and part Ad Man has obviously come up from time to time – usually on the nights when a few bottles of red were also mixed with the odd margerita – but although the more romantic side of me was rather tempted at times, in the cold light of day we both would inevitably wake up, look at one another quizzically and then be hugely relieved when it was clear that neither of us really wanted to see it through. In fact, we’d rather stick needles in our eyes.

We’ve already done more than enough for the next generation. Like Sam Taylor Wood, I have two children, and Ad Man has a son.. and both of us can still remember so clearly the sleepless nights, endless crying, and sheer hard work that our bundles of joy brought us that we really don’t fancy going through that bit all over again.  Call us selfish, but we love the fact that we can spend as long as we like in bed and don’t get woken up in the night by anything other than each other.

If this was a planned event for Sam TW, I take my hat off to her bravery. She is a very beautiful woman, no doubt about it, but I challenge any Cougar to feel sexy and desirable when you’ve had two hours sleep, your breasts are engorged and you haven’t had a minute to leap in the shower. And, bearing in mind that she’s only been seeing her Toyboy for a matter of months, I’d imagine that they are still at that point in the relationship when she is throwing every ounce of energy she has into looking good and fantastic sex..  I hate to be the one to knock another Cougar/Toyboy relationship in any way, but will a 19-year-old really be happy to hang around once that chapter of fun comes to a close and he has to play second fiddle to 8lbs of noise and spittle?

One of the wonderful things about the relationship I have with Ad Man is that he was just celebrating his 30^th birthday when I met him. By the time you’ve hit 30, you’ve seen a few things, got a few serious relationships under your belt and (in Ad Man’s case) even had a child of his own - all of which puts you on a much more level playing field with the 40-something Cougar.  And all of which also seems to be leading me to the point where I have to concede that even I might have a cut-off point in terms of what might make a successful Cougar/ToyBoy coupling.  Or, in other words, if what you want from your relationship is some depth and longevity, there's little point hanging around with someone fresh out of college, who still has a lot more to learn about life, love and women.

 Sorry Sam, but unless your 19-year- old is remarkably worldly wise and mature for his years, I just don’t see it working.. Factoring in that he’s also an actor (not the most selfless of people at the best of times) and if I’d been you, I’d have given it another 10 years at least - but that’s rather a long time to cross your legs now.

The Cougar meets the parents

So Madonna has met the mother of toyboy Jesus Luz… a woman 15 years younger than herself. Now there’s a social challenge - and not, I suspect, one that’s covered by Debrett’s Rules of Etiquette.

In days gone by, you met your potential mother-in-law dressed demurely and hopefully looking like someone who would not only be the perfect wife for her precious son, but also the perfect mother to his future children. By contrast, Madonna already has a couple of ex-husbands behind her and a (growing) clutch of children by a variety of fathers. Also, at 51, she is likely to be less fertile than her potential mother-in-law (36). I wonder if this is what Mrs Luz had in mind for her darling son? The fact is, the cougar usually comes with a lot of baggage and it’s not just the toy boy, but also his family, who have to take it on board – whether or not they want to.

I don’t know how much Ad Man prepared his parents before we were introduced, but from what I'd already heard about them, I was nervous about it. On paper it wasn’t looking good. His mother is just 14 years old than me – so not even legally old enough to be my ‘mother’. And both his mum and dad are good practising Christians. I don’t go to Church myself, but I know enough about good Christians to understand that a 40-something divorcee with two children in tow was probably not top of the wish list for their son.

As it was, I needn't have worried. They were charming and lovely, and welcomed me into the bosom of the family - apparently just happy and relieved to see their son looking so relaxed and content for a change. And maybe that’s what we should all remember – that relationships don’t always follow the accepted ‘rules’ and that we should look beyond what is considered the ‘norm’ and see what it is that really makes people happy. I hope Mrs Luz felt the same.

What's in it for the ToyBoy?

Of course it’s not hard to see why any young man might be more than happy to hook up with an older female celebrity. From Halle to Jen, to Cameron and even Madonna, the celebrity cougar has plenty to offer in terms of looks, cash and connections – but what about us lesser mortals? What is it that the toy boy sees in dating the average older woman?

Some mornings I’ll peek at Ad Man as he gets ready for work, cheerful as ever, plugging in his MP3 headphones, zipping up his hoodie and leaping onto his scooter, and I can’t help but feel a very, very lucky woman. Then I catch a glimpse of myself, pale faced, in a shabby dressing gown, handing out school bags and scrabbling to put packed lunches together and think, ‘ye gods, what on earth does he see in me?’

As far as I’m concerned, I’m definitely the one getting all the perks here. And I can see in the faces of my girlfriends that they, clearly, think the same. At a recent party in a club somewhere southwest of London, I sat in a velvet booth with some friends watching Ad Man as he gregariously scampered to and from the bar, buying everyone drinks, then hit the dance floor with enthusiasm – a lone stag surrounded by a bunch of excited women. Meanwhile the other, older, menfolk clutched their pints and kept their backs firmly against the walls. “A man who dances… you lucky thing, “ sighed a Yummy Mummy enviously while glaring at her husband who simply stared, glumly, into his Fosters. “I know," I smiled, trying not to look too smug, but then getting up to join Ad Man on the dance floor, just to emphasise the point.

In my more insecure moments though it does concern me that, one day, Ad Man will wake up and wonder what on earth he is doing hanging around with someone who listens to Radio 4 and usually prefers a nice cup of tea to a tequila slammer. It was beginning to play on my mind a bit so the other night I finally plucked up the courage to tackle the issue head on. Over dinner, and after a bottle or two of red, I asked him rather directly, why he would want to be with an older woman when there are clearly plenty of 20-somethings keen to step into my rather sensible brogues.

To my surprise (OK, and relief) he instantly came up with quite a convincing string of reasons which I feel I should share with you – if only to let some young men out there know what they’re missing, and maybe to reassure any other uncertain Cougars. So, for all of you doubters out there, here it is, from the mouth of a babe (well, a 33-year-old male)…. Why young men really do love the older woman:

We’re wiser OK we may have a few crows’ feet to show for it, but our extra years on the planet have also given us a sense of perspective and the experience to know not to sweat the small stuff. Toy Boy may still go dewy eyed over Britney in her school girl’s outfit, but he’d rather spend some quality time with someone who is not going to go into melt down at the smallest hiccup.

We’ve got more to talk about By the time a woman hits 40, she’s usually been to a few places, seen a few things, and realised that there’s more to life than what’s happening in X-Factor and the new handbags in TopShop (though that’s not to say that we don’t like those things too!) We’ve got somewhere in our careers, seen some ups and downs, and know that you need more than perfect hair and make-up to make an evening interesting. Twenty–three-year-old Megan Fox (below) may tick a lot of boxes for the Toy Boy, but her conversation certainly isn’t one of them.

We’re less self aware One of the best things about getting older is that you don’t mind laughing at yourself. We’ve learnt that life is too short to take yourself so seriously. So what if someone turns up at the same do in the same dress or you trip over your own feet as you make your grand entrance? While the 20-something ends up in the Ladies in tears, the 40-something is still having a giggle and glass of champagne.

It’s not all about ‘me’ Talking about yourself for too long is a big turn off for the Toy Boy, and so many 20-somethings are yet to emerge from their egocentric chrysalis. The joy of the forty-something is that she has developed the skill of asking people questions. More than that, she is genuinely interested in someone other than herself. Think, who would you rather have a chat with - Kate Winslet or Peaches Geldof?

We’re not slaves to fashion Most guys just don’t get what it is about Sex and the City’s Carrie – and much of that is to do with the clothes. While men want their date to look good, they’d far rather she was in a well-fitting pair of jeans and flashing a hint of cleavage, than a high-waisted puffball and shoes she can’t walk in. The 40-something scores hands down here because she’s learnt to edit what hits the catwalk and only adopt the more wearable pieces that actually suit her body shape. Natalie Cassidy, take note!

We’re confident Age definitely brings an added confidence. The cougar knows what she wants and what she doesn’t want, and she knows how to sweat her assets. Such confidence is sexy – men of all ages are unanimous in that – and that extends to the bedroom too. OK, so the 40-year-old’s body may have the odd flaw, but at least she’s happy to keep the light on and show off the bits that count – and that keeps a toy boy very happy.

The cougar is concerned

Dating a toy boy is not without its problems for the less experienced Cougar. Although one of the joys of getting older is that you do become much more comfortable with who you are, I’d defy any woman over 40 to say that there isn’t the odd day when she doesn’t wake up, look in the mirror and think, “holy crap, what happened there?” .
While, much of the time, we can convince ourselves we are still lovely young thirty year olds, after a late night and a bottle or two of Fleurie, the facial evidence most definitely says otherwise. So, while young Ad Man clearly liked what he saw when I was propped up by half the products on the Bobbi Brown counter in the daytime, I wasn’t so sure that he’d be prepared for the early morning face.. I already knew that, pre Cougar, he’d only dated women in their twenties, who (damn them) would no doubt wake up looking as dewy and fragrant as a teenager, so the pressure was on..
It seems even the celebrity Cougars have the same insecurities. Sadie Frost (former cougar wife of Jude Law) was pictured recently looking ‘fab at forty plus’, even in a bikini. But reading the small print, she has apparently spent tens of thousands on ensuring that her body looks fit and pert still for her current young partner, 28-year-old Andy Jones.
My Features Editor salary was never going to stretch to that, even if I had the nerve to brave the knife, so I had to resort to other tricks instead. Luckily for me Ad Man sleeps, well, like a baby of course, which gave me an early morning advantage. I soon learnt to prepare for a sleepover by filling a handbag with cougar face-saving essentials, such as eye rescue cream, beauty flash balm, and other such tricks we girls rely on. At night, I’d keep my handbag by the bed and, in the early hours of the morning, very quietly ease out said products, and then lie back, head on the pillow again, and start frantically applying creams before he stirred.
Of course, there would inevitably be the days when an overnighter hadn’t been planned, and I’d wake up after a heavy night, almost feeling the weight of the bags under my eyes, but with no emergency beauty kit to save me. I could vaguely remember some beauty editor once telling me that lying horizontally at night (as, lets face it, most normal beings do) allows fluid to accumulate under the eyes and causes the dark circles and bags. So, those unexpected mornings chez Ad Man would find me desperately plumping up the pillow to make me more vertical than horizontal and tapping away at my eye sockets in an attempt to persuade the damned fluid to head south. Then I’d try to slip off to his bathroom and splash my face 100 times with freezing water, in the hope it would, I don’t know, shock my face into eternal youth maybe?
One morning though, when worryingly, I’d not had a chance for any such pillow prep, Ad Man happened to bring the conversation around to his dislike of the high maintenance woman. “What I like about you, “ he murmured softly, “Is that you don’t wear make up, and yet you always look lovely..”
What?! Could he really not see the difference between the bare faced and exposed ‘me’, and the ‘me’ after hours of work in front of the bathroom mirror? It was at that moment I realised that, actually, what young men see, isn’t the small details we fret over, such as the crows feet and the frown lines. They are far more interested in the more general picture, such as how you move and smell, talk and smile. So, actually, the fact that they may not notice that you’ve had your fringe trimmed, or bought a fantastic new bag, is a GOOD thing ladies – it means you can get away with a few bags under the eyes too. Listen up Demi, you could have saved yourself a fortune!
Next time: dating the older woman – what’s in it for the younger man?
..

The arrival of the cougar

I could never be labeled a trend-follower, let alone a trendsetter. I may have erred mistakenly into wearing something 'of the moment'  at times, but that’s usually only because said trends have finally come back round to my way of dressing, rather than as a result of me picking up Vogue and thinking – oh yes, this season I really must invest in those must-have platform killer heels, essential knits or day-glo gloves etc.

So it’s been a little disturbing to find myself not just following one of the latest trends, but actually living it… 

Five years ago or so, I inadvertently embraced one aspect  of typical 21^st century living  when, as statistics would no doubt have predicted, my long-term relationship fell apart, and I  - plus two kids - left leafy suburbia, to set up a new single-parent home in what I like to describe as a tiny urban cottage, but what the kids would probably call, ‘a dump’.

Just to liven things up a little, I decided that was also the time to return to the world of glossy London magazines and take a job as a Features Editor. My plan, if I had one, was not only to get back into doing a job I really enjoyed, but maybe gain some enhanced self respect along the way - and friends reassured me (when I exhibited regular guilt about being away from home a lot more) that, in juggling it all, I was actually being an excellent role model for the children. I don’t think any of us anticipated that what I was actually about to do was turn into a Cougar.

For those of you who don’t read the lifestyle pages of the papers, the word Cougar now refers to rather more than the sleek pumas or mountain lions you see in the wildlife parks.  Rather less flatteringly, today’s ‘Cougar’ is  “a woman of 40 or so who pursues younger men, typically more than eight years their junior” (wikipedia). Put like that, it initially sounds, well somewhat seedy, but then you look at the people who have entered the realms of the cougar, and the list includes Madonna, Demi Moore, Sadie Frost, Halle Berry, Jennifer Aniston and more. Apparently, bagging yourself a younger, well MUCH younger man, is quite de rigeur these days… but I didn’t know that four years ago..  All I knew was that I was still spending my days bursting into tears in the office whenever I spoke to any lawyers, and my evenings going to Clapham Picture House for some solitary popcorn. But, that all changed when I eventually, and rather inadvertently, spent a night with a work colleague, who was more than 10 years my junior…

As I’m at risk here of being labelled as some sort of ageing seductress, desperate to gain a final trophy, I think I should make it clear that, when it comes to matters of the heart or even the bed, my past was hardly going to raise many eyebrows. Apart from the inevitably decadent years of student life,  I was your average serial monogamist until finally settling down with someone of a similar age, from a similar background, and having two kids and a cat.

But something happened that night, over a long drunken dinner at St Katharine’s dock with the ridiculously youthful Ad Manager, that opened my eyes to the whole wonderful, testosterone-pumped world of the younger man. I didn’t have high hopes of my first date with someone who was still at primary school when I was starting university, but I spent that sultry summer’s evening with a man who complimented me, listened to me, laughed a lot, talked about his feelings, and – god forbid - even understood my liking for indie guitar bands.  There was no middle-aged talk of house prices, no expanding waistline, and no burden of  responsibility or emotional baggage weighing heavily  upon his shoulders. Finally I could understand why it was that Madonna hooked up with Guy, Demi is more than fine without Bruce,  and  the close-to-forty Moss found it hard to resist Docherty’s more childish charms.

What is rather sad is that the media has seen fit to come up with such a depressingly predatorial phrase for women enjoying such relationships. It’s as if the poor men involved  are the hapless prey and poor Tim Robbins (52) has spent the past 20 years trying to escape the clutches of his beautiful and intelligent wife Susan Sarandon (62). Despite the fact that women since Cleopatra, and even Elizabeth 1, have  favoured the younger man, society continues to treat these couplings with a certain suspicion, while smiling benignly at the older man trading his girlfriend in yet again for the even younger model.

Well, if you’re someone who wants to live by society’s unwritten rule book, that's fine - go find yourself someone more grown up. But if you don't mind, I'm not quite ready to do that yet. I'm still having far too much fun... 

Coming next  – what a Cougar should always carry in her handbag....