I’m not a great one for political correctness, but, as a woman on the other side of 70, I must say I find myself written out of the script of life by a lot of people.

The days of women opening their front door and being asked, “is the boss in”, are not entirely gone.

As you know, I own the car in this family and I drive my councillor son around, but when it comes to repairs, the NCT, insurance or anything else to do with it, people don’t seem to believe I have a clue and treat me as if have no brain. From guards to mechanics to car salesmen, they all believe that “the man” is the only one to deal with when it comes to the car.

ADVERTISEMENT

While driving Maurice, a typical encounter with the forces of law and order will involve the guard talking across me and communicating with my son. Even though I’m in the driving seat, I end up like a spectator at a tennis match, looking from one side to the other. In fairness to Maurice, he tries to divert the conversation back to me, but it doesn’t always work.

I remember one evening during the winter, Sergeant McKready was stopping cars outside the village and checking everything from bad lights to bald tyres. He put the hand up and brought me to a halt. He walked around the car, asking me to press the brakes, turn on the indicators, switch on the flashers and the wipers. When he was finished, he went around to talk to Maurice at the passenger side.

“Maurice,” says he, “your left brake light isn’t working, your right dim headlight is on the blink and you could do with changing the tyres on the front.”

“And have you anything to say to me, Sergeant?” says I

“I’ve told Maurice what needs to be done, Missus,” says he.

“So car problems are men’s issues,” says I, “like the prostate and erectile dysfunction? You can’t talk to women about these things?”

“What do you mean, Missus?” he asked

“Sergeant,” says I, “maybe you expected me to be in my burqa, but, for your information, I own this car, I drive it, tax it, insure and service it. Maurice doesn’t know the first thing about it beyond sittin’ in and bucklin’ his safety belt.”

“Well you heard what I said to him,” says the Sergeant, “you know what needs to be done.”

“Sergeant,” says I, “you can come and tell me directly what is wrong with this car and what ‘I’ need to do.”

He glared at me, straightened his hat and came around to the driver’s side. As he did he pulled his notebook out of his top pocket and got very officious.

“Mrs Hickey, do you own this vehicle?”

“I do.”

“Mrs Hickey, I intend to summons you for driving a vehicle on the public road that has the following defects…”

“Hang on there, Sergeant,” says I, “ you can put away the notebook and your attitude. If you summons me, I’ll fight this before a judge and by the time I’m finished draggin’ you and your male chauvinism through the court and across the pages of every newspaper in the country, you’ll be lucky to get a job with the Taliban.”

That took the pep out of his goose-step, so, like a bould child, he listed out what I needed to attend to and I drove off.

Another thing that comes between people and their night’s sleep is the fact that I, a widow in my 70s, should be in a relationship with a male friend. I don’t refer to Stefan as my “boyfriend”, it’s been a long time since he saw boyhood, and I don’t want to give the impression I have a toy-boy, I don’t do high maintenance.

Anyway, I can see the quare looks I get and can almost hear the snide remarks when we’re out and about and Stefan is in the car beside me. People would pass no remarks if I had a big yoke of a Labrador propped in the front seat. But to have a man at my age, and a foreign man at that, is not the thing.

The world seems to think that older women, particularly women like myself, either widowed or unmarried, have no need of companionship, no bit of desire left in them, and are happy to spend their days between the church, the post office and the Sacred Heart lamp. But I have news for them, the need for a bit of rub and tickle doesn’t fade with the years, it lingers as long as life itself and can get more intense as time passes.

Yes, indeed, it might take the auld stove a bit longer to heat up, but when it gets going ’twould cook anything.