I’ll never forget the first time a lovely, intensely desirable and patently unavailable young woman called me “Sir”. It had to happen. I had been getting older and new batches of “children” were coming of age and looking as good as a crown roast on my table.

In my middle years, and I’ll leave you to decide what that was, I found myself single and not knowing “jack” about what that meant. I found out what it meant, but not as an adult, but rather as the teenager that never was. That’s another story that we will not explore at this time.

When that young and bursting at the seams woman called me “Sir”, it gave me pause to calculate the probable differential in our ages – as though that made any difference to anyone in my particular neighborhood – and it became clear that she could have, under wildly improbable circumstances, been my daughter. So I replied, in my most circumspect manner, “Yes ma’am”. I have been handling similar situations pretty much the same since.

I can guarantee that more people of either sex say “Sir” rather than some other greeting such as “Hey Baby”, which I heard only once in a disco in the mid 70’s. It scared the hell out of me at the time.

Anyway, what I am thinking about has nothing to do with much at all except that I don’t think about this stuff unless I am home alone on a cold dreary night. So, I’m home alone on a cold dreary night.

To take the edge off the evening, I have some excellent domestic blue cheese and some fantastic herbed crackers. To wash that down I have an adequate measure of a name brand Northern Scandinavian spirit. I feel an inspiration coming on. Where is that Daniel Silva novel? It’s not nearly as bad as I, at first, thought.

Be well, Dear Ones, and stay tuned.

I’m Jerry Henderson

1 Comment

  1. David Henderson

    Nice post you got there….Sir.

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